The Breach of Promise Affair
by SSClassof56
Summary: In London on a mission requiring delicacy and finesse, Illya instead finds distractions and old foes when Harry Beldon assigns an agent to the affair ahead of him.
1. Chapter 1

Early Summer 1966

Illya put on his tinted glasses, both to dampen the room's opulence and to veil his stupefied reaction. From floor to ceiling, motifs from China, Japan, and India mingled with abandon. Gilded dragons ran riot about the space, shouldering the tables, undulating over the chairs, and pursuing each other across the papered walls. The décor was obtrusive, decadent, and audacious; yet, like the office's occupant, it was surprisingly successful.

Harry Beldon tossed his coat onto a fretwork rack and took up a voluminous crimson choga edged in gold embroidery. As he slipped on the robe, he looked over his office like a maharajah surveying his state. "Well, Illya, what do you think of my changes?"

"They suit you."

Beldon gave a bark of laughter. "The first thing I did upon becoming UNCLE Northeast was to have each of my offices redecorated. A man should be surrounded by beauty, particularly in our line of work."

He crossed to an imposing sideboard. An empty wine bottle stood there, the contents airing in a crystal decanter. Beldon looked at the claret and thrust his jaw forward until his lower lip protruded. His narrow eyes darted briefly to the rear of the office.

Illya observed his former station chief and pondered the expressions reflected in the sideboard's mirror. Harry Beldon, head of Policy and Operations for the entire Northeast sector. The mind boggled. Yet there was a feeling of inevitability about it as well. Beldon had always been as ambitious as he was audacious, and he had higher peaks still to climb. A vision arose in his mind of Waverly's office transformed into the hunting lodge of an American robber baron. He suppressed a shudder.

"Wine?" Beldon asked as he poured a glass. "Or perhaps vodka?"

"Neither, thank you."

To his right, a bay of windows surrounded a black lacquered desk. Illya stepped aside to clear the path, then watched as Beldon moved instead to a low wooden daybed, broad and deep, at the center of the room. He lay across it on his side, the crimson choga filling the space around him.

"Take a seat."

Illya considered the options with a dubious eye and chose a chair of upholstered rosewood. Carved chi dragons snarled beneath his arms.

Beldon performed a complicated ritual with the wine, swirling and sniffing, then drank half the glass in one swallow. "Speaking of beauty, I am informed that Waverly has promoted a woman to Section II. I was surprised that this was not discussed at the last Conference." He peered at Illya over the gilded rim. "Why is she not with you for this affair?"

"Miss Dancer is on another assignment."

"Too bad. I looked forward to meeting her."

"And I would like to meet your agent," Illya said in mounting impatience, "as soon as possible."

"You will, you will. She can update us both on her progress."

"Progress? I have not yet briefed her."

"I took care of that. 'Girl meets boy, girl steals boy.' A mere trifle. Hardly necessary for you to travel all this way."

"Convincing Dr. Latner to come into UNCLE's protective custody is more than a trifle. His daughter's engagement to this boy is the only thing preventing it."

"If I know my agent, it will not be an impediment for much longer." A tray that once held opium paraphernalia sat at his elbow, now inset with a familiar panel. He pressed a button and said, "The Pemberley profile, please."

Within moments, a secretary entered with a folder. At Beldon's nod, she handed it to Illya.

He found a single sheet of cardstock inside. The young woman in the small personnel photo had an agreeable face with no claims to great beauty. "She looks…competent," Illya said.

"That picture does not do her justice. A gorgeous creature. And a woman of the world."

Illya was familiar with Beldon's appetites. One took him with his pets and peccadillos or did not take him at all. Illya wondered which he was being saddled with. He skimmed Miss Pemberley's profile, noting several languages, meager compared to April's twelve, and a list of postings around the globe. New Delhi, Hong Kong, Rio, Paris, London. "She does not remain in one office for very long."

"A gypsy." Beldon raised his glass as if in toast.

"Or a hot potato."

"Not at all. I understand wanderlust. I simply could not function like Alexander Waverly, always in the same office. Without variety, the spirit stagnates."

Illya flipped the page over. "Few commendations. And one official reprimand."

"Only one? Filed by whom?"

"Gerald Strothers."

"Oh, yes, I remember. Farenti was a fool to assign them to the same affair, but _nil nisi bonum_. I advised Strothers against the complaint at the time."

"Which was?"

"Striking a senior agent."

"And had she?"

"Most assuredly. I was present. Strothers was dissatisfied with the outcome of their mission and intimated that Miss Pemberley had been aiding Thrush. She felled him with a single blow."

"What about his accusations?"

"Sheer nonsense. Strothers is burdened with a suspicious mind and a glass jaw." Beldon wagged a finger. "But he's a good agent. He is now my station chief in Berlin."

Illya closed the file on Beldon's pet or peccadillo—he was not yet sure which—and took off his glasses. "I do not believe Miss Pemberley and I will suit any better than she and Strothers."

"You're wrong, Illya. I have the utmost confidence in Miss Pemberley, and I assure you, you will too."

Frustration propelled him to his feet. "This mission requires finesse and a delicate touch." He slapped the file onto the desk and frowned at the antique katana on prominent display. "I see no evidence of that here."

"Still inclined to view the glass as half empty, I see. Stress and negativity will ruin your health. My personal physician insists that I rid myself of tension as much as possible, and I've had each of my offices thus equipped. In Helsinki, a sauna. In Berlin, a steam room. Here in London, an ofuro tub. You are welcome to make use of it."

The rear wall held two painted fusama. Beldon flicked a switch, and the right-hand wooden panel slid open. Candlelight flickered in the shadowy space beyond. Water splashed.

"Harry, is that you?" a woman called. "I thought you were arriving tonight."

The accent was indefinite. If pressed, Illya would say an American whose life was largely spent among foreigners. His eyes swept over the discarded profile to rest on Beldon.

"I took an earlier flight," Beldon replied over his shoulder. "Mr. Kuryakin is here as well. Come update us on your mission."

"Now?"

"Yes. He is anxious to hear your progress."

There was a long pause, then another splash. "It will take me a few minutes to dress. I assume you've been at my Mouton Rothschild. Have another glass, but don't gulp it down this time."

Beldon looked at Illya significantly and tapped the side of his hooked nose. "We prefer not to wait. I do not insist you appear in only a towel. There is another robe here at your disposal."

"How convenient."

The splashing resumed, followed by the dripping of water onto tile. A drain gurgled. Beneath his colorless brows, Beldon's dark eyes shone with expectancy. He fixed his gaze on Illya, inviting him to partake of the anticipation.

Illya frowned in distaste. "Surely we can give Miss Pemberley time to change."

"Do not be fooled. There isn't a shy bone in her body. _Une allumeuse_. But by all means, bring her the robe, if you wish." He gestured to the rack and called, "Mohammed is coming to the mountain, my dear."

Illya took the yellow silk robe to the rear of the office and knocked on the panel. In the dim light, he caught a fleeting glimpse of wide eyes in a ghostly pale face. "Thank you," she said in her elusory accent. He felt a stab of pity as the garment was whisked from his hand.

Beldon held up an empty glass at his passing. Illya took it to the sideboard to refill. "I can see you disapprove," Beldon said. "You are thinking that Alexander Waverly would not do this. But I ensure that all my agents, no matter the section, are prepared to operate at maximum efficiency under any conditions."

A velvety chuckle came from behind the panel. "You're so good to us, Harry."

"I am. And if you hope to serve in Section II, you will be thankful for it."

"You are planning a promotion, then?" Illya asked, handing Beldon his glass.

"In due time. I have several excellent candidates to consider. But UNCLE Northeast will not be left behind."

Illya turned at the acrid smell of extinguished candles. Miss Pemberley stood in the doorway of the bathing room. Above the golden shimmer of silk, he could just make out the pale oval face crowned with a towering mass of dark hair.

Beldon twisted around to look over the low back rail of the daybed. "We are suitably primed for your entrance, my dear. Come show Mr. Kuryakin how admirably you will suit him."

Miss Pemberley stepped out into the light. Illya's brows shot upward, then settled over narrowed eyes. She crossed the room at a leisurely pace, embroidered ocean waves swirling about her bare feet. A green towel formed a turban around her head. The face beneath was obscured by a white beauty mask that left only the eyes and lips exposed.

Beldon laughed. "Playing geisha today?"

A smile stretched across her face. "Isn't that the idea?" she replied sweetly.

The impossibly wide grin turned to Illya. The hand she extended was well-shaped, the nails varnished in pastel, the skin flushed red from the heat of the bath. Large eyes twinkled at him; oddly-colored, translucent eyes, like a sea gone green beneath an approaching storm.

A memory stirred as his hand fell away from her firm clasp. Black clouds racing over glowing emerald waters. An eerie calm. The thrill of anticipation. A thunderbolt and pelting raindrops. The recollections flickered rapidly though his mind, leaving a vague sense of disquiet to mark their passing.

The wry twist of her lips brought him up short. He had been staring. He could feel Beldon's gaze and his vicarious pleasure, that of a collector when a treasured piece is admired. Anger and embarrassment colored his face. He gave a curt nod and stepped back.

As he resumed his seat, Miss Pemberley walked to the sideboard. She picked up the decanter, sniffed its mouth, then sighed in pleasure. She poured some claret into a glass, a few purple drops splashing onto the polished wood.

"A libation to Bacchus," Beldon said.

She looked at the partly depleted decanter and over to Beldon. "I think that's already been made." She dabbed some of the claret behind her ears before wiping up the rest with a towel.

"Drink, drink, my dear," Beldon urged as she turned to face them, swirling her glass gently.

"Some things are worth waiting for."

Beldon's lower jaw thrust forward. "Very true." He looked at Illya. "Wine is one of the few things for which she shows patience. I recall Strothers insisting to her that reds need nothing more than a vigorous shake."

"And I said so did he." She stood with one elbow resting on the sideboard as if it were the Oak Bar of the Plaza and sniffed the wine deeply. Illya drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. Finally she took a sip. Her eyes closed as she savored it. "Divine," she murmured.

She reached for the decanter and filled her glass. An emerald dragon coiled around her like a stole, its head resting on her breast. Illya saw Beldon adjust the fall of his long, colonel tie. He was irked to find his own hand tugging at one of his cuffs.

Beldon said, "Even in that getup, my dear, you manage to make us feel underdressed. How do you do it?"

"Trade secret." She moved to the chair beside Illya's and curled up on the seat. The robe pooled around her, and the carved chi armrests seemed to leap from a blue embroidered ocean. The wry smile returned. "Do I pass muster?"

"I hardly know yet," he said. He regretted the maroon jacket. In his gray suit and blue tie, his cool gaze would be even more effectual.

Her eyes flashed. "Oh, that's right. Solo is the decisive one," she said and sipped her wine.

He leaned closer, his voice taking on a rough edge. "So far I have heard only wine and nonsense. I did not come for those."

"That's too bad." She made a sweeping motion with her empty hand. "You're in the right place for them."

His eyes darted to Beldon before he registered that she had spoken in Russian. Her accent was precise and formal, even a bit old-fashioned; trained by an elderly expatriate, no doubt, on recitations extolling the glories of old St. Petersburg and the villainy of the Bolsheviks.

Beldon, his bald head resting on a hard leather pillow, registered no sign of offense. "Excellent, my dear. Show Mr. Kuryakin what talents you're made of."

"Nonsense and wine and everything nice. That's what this little girl is made of." She shifted in her chair, bringing her face closer to Illya's. "What are you made of, Mr. Kuryakin?"

His mouth felt dry. Beneath drooping lids, her opalescent eyes glowed like hearth fires, threatening to thaw his icy armor. He dropped his gaze. The emerald dragon across her breast gently heaved with each inhalation. Her fingers balanced her wine glass on a silk-draped knee, twisting it meditatively. A fold of the robe exposed one bare foot, the nails varnished in pastel to match her fingers.

Finding no safe haven below, he reinforced his arctic defenses and raised his eyes. Napoleon was better suited for these scenarios, perennially prepared to exchange quip for quip and smolder for smolder. As for himself, such responses did not come readily, and he found the effort of fashioning them to be exhausting.

He met her sultry gaze, and words formed on his lips. He listened in astonishment as he said in Russian, "I am Arkhangelsk in the spring, the Northern Dvina flowing beneath its blanket of ice, and the polar lights dancing across the starlit sky."

Her lids flew up, and her eyes widened with childlike delight. The mouth stretched into a grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat. Illya's lips began to curve in response.

"Brava," Beldon called, clapping. "You see, Illya, why I chose Miss Pemberley. We are putty in her hands."

Illya's smile died half-formed. Indignation burned like gall in his throat. His lips compressed into a thin line. He regarded her with the cool disdain normally reserved for Angelique. "_Une allumeuse,_" he hissed.

If her eyes had once held hearth fires, they now blazed into infernos. He drew back. The nonchalant curl of her limbs became a caricature of repose as every muscle stiffened. Her fingers tightened around the wine glass until the knuckles turned white. He thought she might throw it, but in which direction he was unsure. He prepared to duck.

A sheen of sweat appeared along the line of skin where her beauty cream met the edge of the towel. He sensed a wrestling of spirit against flesh, and the imposing of a preternatural control over her native temper. He knew the malicious and exhilarating desire for her flesh to win the day. He wondered how many of the furnishings would survive.

The wine glass made a slow climb to her mouth, then tipped its contents down her throat. When the last drop had passed her lips, she sprang from the chair in a flurry of silk and bared legs. She crossed to the sideboard and poured another serving of claret.

Illya found his breathing heavy and his heart beating rapidly. "Your report, Miss Pemberley."

She had returned to her cocktail lounge pose, the menacing pulse of the emerald dragon the only sign of agitation. "In two days' time, three at the outermost, Donald Marsden will have broken off his engagement, and Miss Latner and her father will no longer have a reason to refuse protective custody."

He watched her drink her wine and waited for further explanation. Apparently none was forthcoming. "You are very sure of yourself," he said, his tone edged with contempt.

The dragon leapt up, then settled. "Would you prefer it otherwise?"

"You yourself have seen that she has every reason to be," Beldon said. "And I know her methods. Restaurants, discotheques, the theater. The last few days will have been a whirlwind for this young man. By now, his head is quite thoroughly turned."

"So I should defer to her…expertise."

"Precisely," Beldon said.

"A plum assignment, this stealing of fiancés," he said to her. "You must enjoy your work."

Her answering smile was more Red Queen than Cheshire Cat. His could feel the axe at his neck.

"We become UNCLE agents to be on the side of the angels, not because we are angels."

Something that was decidedly not his better nature prompted his reply. "Speak for yourself."

A spark of delight flashed in her eyes. He suspected something similar shone in his own.

Beldon worked himself upright and brandished his empty glass. She took it with a sigh.

"It seems you have a most fortuitous opportunity before you, Illya." Beldon looked on in amusement as the glass returned only half full. "A few days relaxation await you while your mission rests in Miss Pemberley's very capable hands."

"Please, Harry, my blushes," she said dryly.

Harry laughed, the bark falling harshly on Illya's ears. "As if you did, my dear. I have never known you to be coy."

She faced Beldon's hungry, possessive gaze with equanimity. "I may be many things, but not that."

Beldon licked the wine from his lips and turned to Illya, who barely had time to hide his revulsion.

"What do you say, Illya? My amenities are at your disposal." Beldon gestured to the bathing room, but Illya had the uneasy feeling that he was offering more than the tub.

"I will think about it," he said.

Beldon stood up from the opium bed. "In that case, I will have a soak. I always build up tension when I travel. For me, it is the destination, not the journey, that matters."

Miss Pemberley put down her glass. "You forget I need to change first. I'm meeting Donald for drinks this afternoon."

She strolled across the office and stopped in the threshold of the open fusama. Her hand reached behind the wall, presumably to press a switch. As the panel began to close, she turned around and said, "Who knows? With a little overtime, I might break that engagement by morning." Her wide smile was the last thing Illya saw as the panel slid shut.

"I have seen a cat without a grin," he murmured, "but never a grin without a cat."

Beldon stood at the rack removing his choga. He nodded as Illya said, "I am due to report in to New York."

"Certainly. You remember where Communications is, of course. And no word to Waverly yet about any promotions. When the time comes, I wish to surprise him as he surprised me."

"Perish the thought," Illya said and made his exit.

Once through the smaller office of Beldon's secretary, he was back in corridors lined in soothing, unadorned chrome. His feet guided him easily to Communications, allowing his thoughts to freely churn.

The young woman manning Communications was new since his transfer from London. It seemed, however, that he was no stranger to her. She met his request with a nervous giggle and flustered hands. "Overseas relay to Headquarters New York. Right away, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Thank you. And after you have the channel open, I need a telephone number."

"Yes?" she squeaked hopefully.

"Yes." He steeled himself against her coming disappointment. "The number for a Mr. Donald Marsden, please."

~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~

Faustina Pemberley waited until the panel slid completely closed, then rested her head against it. "Down, girl," she whispered.

Her hand groped for the light switch and flipped it on. Beldon's voice penetrated the wood, muffled but discernible. She engaged the locks quietly.

The bathing room was a small space of white tile and cedar, almost clinical in its simplicity. A few steps brought her to the sink. She gripped the sides of the basin and stared hard at her reflection. "I hope you're happy. That was quite a show you put on in there."

After a moment, she pulled the towel from her hair. Without it, the green fled her eyes, leaving them an indistictive grey. As she wiped the cream from her face, the wry smile returned. "Staring like a schoolgirl too." She shook her head. "And what's worse, he knew it."

She continued to clean her face. Soon she was humming. Her eyes ceased to focus on the mirror. Her smile widened. "Illya," she purred.

At the sound of her voice, her thoughts snapped back from their pleasant wanderings. She slammed a fist onto the basin and followed it with a string of exotic oaths, several from languages not listed in her profile.

"Don't you dare." She eyed herself sternly and pointed an admonishing finger. "No distractions."

She turned from the mirror, threw off the robe, and proceeded to take a very cold shower.


	2. Chapter 2

Illya sat at the corner table of the saloon, his eyes on the doors and his hands around a pint. Despite post-war renovations, the Portly Porter retained its Victorian atmosphere, the sign labeling the adjacent room as the Cocktail Lounge one of the few indications that the pub and the Eastern Grande Hotel surrounding it had been acquired by Americans.

Donald Marsden was late. As Illya slowly drained his pint, the pattern of his thoughts was reflected in an occasional flex of his lips and a sardonic tilt of his brows. These mental abstractions did not prevent his noting each new patron, whether arriving by the street entrance or the door to the Lounge intended for hotel guests and those willing to pay higher prices for wait service. Expenses had been steep that month, so he was not willing.

A small knot of people entered, none matching the photo in Illya's breast pocket. As the men headed for the counter, a bright young thing peered myopically at the dimly-lit banquettes along the back wall. Her roving eyes paused two tables to his left, where a man sat behind a copy of _The Times_. With a little wave of recognition, she walked towards them. Illya felt a pang of envy at the man whose afternoon consisted of pint, paper, and pretty girl. Then he dismissed the thought as unproductive and resumed his watch on the doors.

By the time he registered that anything was amiss, it was too late. The bargirl was busily clearing tables. The young woman passed behind her and carried off a half-empty glass from her tray. He had just begun to puzzle over this surreptitious maneuver, when the young woman stopped in front of him. "Bastard," she said from between clenched teeth and flung the contents at him.

Runnels of lukewarm beer ran down his face and beneath his collar. Illya shook his head, then opened one eye at his assailant. Brown hair drawn into loose pigtails below the ears. A china-doll complexion. Angry blue eyes. He blew a drip from the end of his nose. "Miss Pemberley, I presume."

"_Angelochek moi_."

The man at the nearby table poked his head around a bent corner of _The Times_. "I say—" he began. Two antagonistic gazes, like fire and ice, rounded on him. He swallowed and retreated behind the paper.

The bargirl was not so easily put off. "Here, what's all this about?"

Illya sat stone-faced, mopping himself with a handkerchief. Miss Pemberley set the empty glass on the table with a bang. The bargirl appraised them knowingly. "Was this chap bothering you, miss?"

Illya looked at her in affront. Miss Pemberley made a harsh noise, something between a laugh and a sob, and dug through her handbag. "Bothering me? Sneaking off behind my back. Clandestine meetings." She broke off her anguished sputtering to dab her eyes with a scrap of cambric. "And after all I've done for him." With a piteous moan, she crumpled into the opposing chair.

"There, there, miss." The bargirl patted Miss Pemberley's trembling shoulder and glared at Illya in righteous indignation.

"A simple misunderstanding," he said, wringing his sodden handkerchief into the empty glass, "and one I am anxious to clear up. Privately."

The ring on his left hand caught the light. The bargirl gave an angry toss of her head when she saw it. "Of course, sir. It'd be a shame if the wrong party got wind of it." After squeezing Miss Pemberley's shoulder in solidarity, she threw her towel on the table and stalked away.

When they were alone, Miss Pemberley raised dry eyes that watched him with complacency. The damp bar cloth smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. Illya wiped his ruined tie, frowning in distaste, while considering several acid comments. "Do you always do the first thing that enters your head?" he asked finally.

A little crease formed above the bridge of her nose. "Not like I used to. I seem to have had a relapse today."

He raised his brows at this show of candor and responded in kind. "What have you done with Donald Marsden?"

"The very thing I was going to ask you."

"You might have done that first, rather than casting aspersions on my parents."

Her mouth was a shining pink Cupid's bow, carefully drawn, and her smile curved to match. "Lovely people, I'm sure," she purred, "and you their blue-eyed cherub."

If the tone was insincere, the eyes were not. They were also no longer green but the blue-grey of the Baltic at dawn. Eyes as changeable as the sea, one moment shining warmly, the next storming with renewed anger. He remembered that he hated the sea.

"I could file a report on this," he said and immediately regretted it. What was meant to reprove instead sounded petulant.

The slim gold case she pulled from her handbag flipped open to reveal a notepad and pencil. "After interfering in Agent Pemberley's mission—" she said as she wrote.

"It is my mission, and I am completing it as I see fit."

She tore off the sheet and handed it to him. He asked, "What's this?"

"My name. Three Es in Pemberley. People tend to leave one out."

"I will keep that in mind." He folded the paper carefully before slipping it into a dry pocket. "Where is Donald Marsden?"

"Otherwise occupied. Someone held up his bank."

"An extraordinary coincidence. May I look forward to your imminent arrest?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, but it was in the capable hands of Posh Pete."

At the mention of ironically-named thief, Illya was surprised into a brief smile. "I should have guessed." He had fond memories of the wizened old man with a face like a dried apple and an accent straight out of a music hall. "He has not retired yet?"

"Not Pete. He'll die with his boots on."

"And his hand in someone's pocket." He knew from her answering smile that she had a similar fondness for the scoundrel.

Her smile grew fixed. "I told you I had this affair sewn up, perhaps even by morning. Now you've sabotaged my hard work."

"Sabotage," he said. "Careful. That kind of talk can provoke a violent response."

Her eyes flashed. "_En guard_, in other words. Well, I'm not much at judo, but I should warn you, I do bite."

His thoughts veered in an unexpected and unwelcome direction. He gripped his own pint glass tightly. "How is it that no one has yet strangled you?"

The crease at the top of her nose reappeared, and her eyes looked upward as if in thought. An attitude designed to irritate him, he suspected. She said, "Born under a lucky sign, I suppose."

He gave her his most quelling stare, determined to regain the upper hand. Her expression immediately sobered, but he put no trust in it. Her true thoughts were as elusive as the face that had hidden earlier beneath the beauty mask, and now behind a meticulously applied London Look. Eyes accentuated by layers of shadow and impossible lashes. Porcelain skin with delicately tinted cheeks. Rosebud mouth in shimmering pink. The small, unflattering photo from her profile seemed to have no relation to the woman before him.

He said, "This mission was originally Mr. Solo's, until he was reassigned, and the seduction idea was his. He is fond on a convoluted ploy."

"Convoluted or not, it was working. The staid banker, engaged to marry his mousy grade-school sweetheart, suddenly finds a vivacious young mod interested in him. Heady stuff. Donald Marsden was almost mine for the taking."

He could well believe it. Her blue mini-dress gave tantalizing hints of the figure underneath while its white Peter Pan collar drew attention to her face. Her legs were sheathed in white patterned tights and finished with pointy slingback heels. She exuded just the right amount of modern, swinging London, a girl able to introduce Donald to exciting new scenes but also someone he could take to dinner with his bank's directors. No wonder he was on the cusp of breaking his engagement to Miss Latner. "With a little overtime tonight."

He had not meant to say that. She might not blush, but he did. He could feel the warmth rising up his neck and onto his face.

She raised her brows. "Unprepared to have my virtue on your conscience? Well, don't worry. _Une allumeuse_, remember?"

He suppressed a fresh wave of indignation. "Don't be ridiculous. I decided that a more straight-forward approach would be better."

"So I gathered from Donald's flustered phone call. What exactly did you say to him?"

Somehow he was on the defensive again. "That I was from a security organization and that we had reason to believe his fiancée and her father were in danger. I would explain the rest when we met."

"At which time, you would convince him to do the chivalrous thing and give her up."

"Yes."

"You were right about one thing. Under that dry banking exterior does beat the heart of a knight. Only he's not bent on noble sacrifice. He's bent on rescuing fair maiden."

"What?"

"He informed me that his fiancée was in peril and that he was getting a seat on the next flight back to the States. Thankfully Posh Pete works quickly. I just hope Donald's been too busy to go through with his plans."

"_Chyort_."

"Exactly."

He stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"To call Marsden."

When he returned from the phone, the table had been cleaned and his pint refreshed. He was as clean as a short trip to the Gents would allow.

Miss Pemberley sat on the bench perpendicular to his, sipping a glass of white wine. "Well?"

He shook his head and sat down. "He is determined to be the knight errant. Fool. What can he hope to do against Thrush?"

"They'll crush him like a bug."

"At least Posh Pete was successful. With all the uproar at the bank, Marsden was too late to get a ticket for tonight. But he does plan to fly out tomorrow." He drank deeply from his pint and prepared to take his medicine. "I miscalculated."

He waited for her to gloat. Her eyes shone briefly with what might have been triumph. Then she was thoughtful and silent.

"Did you give me away?" she asked after a minute.

"No."

"Good." She stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"To call Donald."

She returned a short while later, crossing the saloon with a spring in her step, every bit the vivacious mod of Napoleon's plan. He became very aware of the damp shirt clinging to his chest and the odor of hops hanging about him like a cloud. As she slid onto the bench, he had the urge to apologize, then recalled who was responsible for his current state.

"It took a little doing," she said, "but I convinced him to meet me for dinner."

"Where, I gather, you will dissuade him from his noble quest. Still that sure of yourself?"

"This one may be beyond even my manifold charms." The pink Cupid's bow twisted wryly. "I do build in a certain scenario, just in case they need an extra push."

"Aha. Not so confident after all."

She chuckled. "There's confidence, and then there's hubris. I can allow for the possibility that someone might not fall madly in love with me."

"Big of you." He wondered where she placed colleagues on her scale of possibility. Beldon had called her a gypsy, but his fascinating friends did have a way of using a place up. "What is this scenario?"

"I call it 'The Wicked Guardian's Grasp.'"

"Very gothic."

"So gothic, it's a dark manor on a storm-swept cliff, and a woman fleeing into the night in a white nightgown."

He rolled his eyes. "Go on."

"Actually it's a Wicked Trustee, but that doesn't sound as good. He controls my inheritance and hopes to marry me himself."

"I assume he's unpleasant."

"Very. An aging roué desperately clinging to youth through sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll."

"And how exactly does this scenario help us?"

"It makes me a damsel in distress. Donald's newfound protective instincts need an outlet. Hopefully we can convince him that one man against an evil international syndicate is suicide. But against a Wicked Guardian?"

"One knight in shining armor could save the day." He nodded. "It might work. Harry could be a convincing Wicked Guardian."

She shook her head. The carefully redrawn lips stretched into her Cheshire Cat grin.

"I categorically refuse," Illya said.

"You owe me. It was your miscalculation."

"I knew that was coming. No woman can resist an 'I told you so.'"

Her eyes issued storm warnings. "Bringing in Harry will require some awkward explanations. And then there's the matter of my expenses."

"That sounds like blackmail."

She gestured to her ensemble, every piece of which spoke of exclusive boutiques and even more exclusive prices. "Someone will be responsible for all the bills if this goes South, and it won't be me."

"Are they not fringe benefits? Harry has always been very generous to those he takes a special interest in."

Once on a mission he had worked a Baltic freighter and been run aground in a violent storm. Looking at her face, he knew the same sick feeling and same the desire to be absolutely anyplace else in the world. At the twitch of her hand, he quickly secured both their glasses.

"I apologize. Your relationship with Harry Beldon is none of my business."

He waited for her to hotly deny that any such relationship existed. She did not. "You're right. It is none of your business," she said between clenched teeth. She sat rigidly upright, her fingers gripping the edge of the table as if she might thrust it away at any moment. Her furious gaze held his.

Then, as quickly as it had risen, the storm passed. She sank back against the bench, and her hands fell limply to her sides. The bright young thing was extinguished. She looked weary. He had seen the look before in his own mirror.

She said, "On second thought, Harry was born to play the Wicked Guardian. I will make the arrangements with him." She looped her handbag over her arm. "You'll hear from me by morning."

She began to slide from the bench, then checked as his hand gripped her arm gently. The eyes she turned back to him were suspiciously bright.

His free hand opened, revealing the folded notepaper on which she had written her name. He crumpled it up and dropped it into the dregs of his beer. The other hand released her arm. It rose slowly until it was level with her mouth. "Bite."

Her eyes widened. "Pardon?"

He moved the hand to his chin, which was thrust forward. "Or strike. Whichever you please."

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth to hold back the burgeoning smile. "I'll take a raincheck."

He nodded solemnly, his own lips flexing. "I am afraid I did not pack for sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll."

"A terrible oversight."

"Just what are Wicked Guardians wearing this season?"

She gave her grin free rein, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. He swallowed in sudden trepidation.

"Come on," she said, sliding from the bench.

"Where?"

"King's Road. We're going shopping."


	3. Chapter 3

The narrow Georgian townhouse was for generations the London residence of the Cubbitt family, before two world wars rendered their line extinct. In honor of the building's history, a portrait of the notorious Sir Charles Cubbitt, resplendent in powdered wig and scarlet satin, hung in the front hall of the Jacobite Club, which a Pathé newsreel had recently named 'the current temple of the In.' Sir Charles greeted the colorfully-arrayed guests much as he had done two centuries earlier, his raffish air exuding sympathetic vibes over the young mods, particularly toward the scantily-clad girls. The less sympathetic Victorian Cubbitts had been hung in the Ladies and Gents.

At her companion's inquiring glance, Faustina Pemberley shook her head and gestured to the sign marked Casino. The arrow pointed up a deeply-carpeted staircase. She ascended, Donald Marsden close behind, his hand still rattling the pocket change remaining from what he had announced to be an 'exorbitant' entrance fee. "I should try to reach Louise," he said. "I don't understand why I haven't been able to get through."

She paused on the landing to allow a couple to pass. Donald drew up beside her and stared perplexedly at a psychedelic interpretation of the Triple Portrait of Charles I. With his snub nose, guileless brown eyes, and shock of sandy hair, Donald hardly looked like a Wharton graduate and junior executive. Though they were near in age, she felt ancient in comparison.

She touched his chin and turned his face toward hers. "There's plenty of time to call. It's only afternoon in Ohio." Her fingers traced a pattern on the lapel of his dark suit. "Please, Donald. He frightens me."

His hands came to rest on her shoulders; large, unimaginative hands, which sat heavily and made no attempt to caress her bare skin. "All right, Frannie. For a little while."

"Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you, Donald. Really." Her accent reflected her cover story, country breeding with a London polish, an attention to detail undoubtedly lost on him.

When he gave a dazed smile, she raised her face invitingly. He looked around and, finding they were alone on the landing, pressed a kiss on her cheek. His hands remained on her shoulders, unmoving. With detached curiosity, she wondered what he would have done if she had turned her head and met his lips with hers.

Donald stepped back and dropped his arms to his sides. "I shouldn't do that."

"I shouldn't let you."

"But when I'm with you, I can't seem to help myself."

They climbed the remaining flight of stairs and crossed the passage to an open doorway. What had once been the drawing room was now a small casino. Sir Charles, a passionate devotee of faro, would have approved. A half dozen gaming tables, manned by liveried croupiers, were scattered about the space, a few eager players sitting at each. One table had attracted an audience.

"Do you see him?" Donald asked.

"No."

The knot of onlookers erupted into applause. He craned his neck. "Who's back there? Some movie star?"

"Too early. It's usually midnight before you see anyone who's really In."

"You're really In in my book," he said awkwardly.

She linked her arm through his. "Oh, Donald, you are sweet."

He signaled a passing waiter. "What's all the hoopla over there?"

"Some punter cleaned up at pontoon. Now he's trying his luck at roulette."

The crowd at the table shifted, and she gave a gasp. "It's Victor."

In his King's Road garments, Illya was hardly recognizable. The William Morris jacket, a profusion of greens, reds, and browns, was worn over a blood red shirt with ruffles at the front and cuffs. Brown velvet pants, which had looked particularly nice from the back, clung to his legs. The thought that he likely hated the outfit brought a pleasant bubble of amusement.

His claimed ability to count cards had not been an idle boast. A healthy stack of jetons graced the table before him. As he watched the wheel spin, he flipped a token across the back of his fingers. He had seen them. There was another clamor of excitement and applause. The girl beside him, her canary-yellow dress bristling with sequins, threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed his cheek. He collected his winnings and began to pass out tokens to all the girls clustered around him.

As she and Donald drew closer, Illya announced that he was letting it all ride on red. The fawning assemblage murmured in anticipation. The wheel spun. A hushed pause. A general groan. 11 Black.

Illya laughed. "Easy come, easy go."

The audience dispersed as the croupier raked away Illya's winnings. The girl in yellow pressed herself against him and held up a handful of tokens. "Thank you for these." She kissed him again, this time full on the mouth. He responded enthusiastically.

"You're welcome," he said, pulling back. As the girl strolled away, he swatted her swaying bottom.

Donald cleared his throat, and Illya turned with a show of surprise. "Fancy." He claimed her hands and spread them out wide. "Let me have a look at you."

He ran a leering gaze over her. Through the tint of his wire-framed glasses, his eyes shone a feline green. "Very fancy indeed."

A familiar thrill coursed through her at his admiration, though she reminded herself it was part of his act. She took quick stock of the transformation he had effected while she was at dinner. The eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated. Wrinkles radiated from the corners. A red flush stained his puffy cheeks and continued over his nose. Silver streaked his temples. A handsome face deteriorating from hard living and excess.

His hands, heavy with rings, held fast to hers. A tiger's eye had replaced the gold band. She canted her head towards the young banker beside her. "Victor, this is my friend, Donald Marsden."

His eyes flicked quickly to Donald and back again, showing little interest. "Pleasure, Donny." He pressed a lingering kiss on the knuckles of each of her hands. "Lovely Fancy."

She detected nothing of Russia in his speech, only hints of Cambridge. "Victor, please." She pulled away from his grasp.

He turned to Donald with a grin. "I love it when she plays coy."

"Frances is many things, but I don't think that's one of them," Donald said stiffly.

Her gaze slid to Illya and found him gazing back. Whether the cynical glint was for Donald or for her, she could not be sure.

Illya wrapped his arm around her waist. "Come on, I fancy another drink." He laughed at his own wordplay.

They descended the staircase single-file against a stream of guests. Through the archway, the barman of the Bonnie Prince Charlie, which consumed half the ground floor, could be heard greeting patrons and taking orders.

"Not that way, my tulips," Illya said as she and Donald made for the bar. He waved a beckoning hand over his shoulder and disappeared through the doorway opposite. Its Adam style trim was topped with a neon sign blinking The Forty-Five.

A rhythmic thumping of bass and drums emanated from the basement discotheque, punctuated by an intermittent pounding that shook the stairs. On a small stage against the far wall, a Scandinavian girlband played a cover of Glad All Over, a theremin prominently featured. The tightly-packed crowd on the dance floor jumped en masse throughout the chorus.

Illya led them to a corner table and waved them into the seats facing the band. He scooted the third chair around and sat with his knee brushing hers. A waitress responded to his hail.

"A bottle of champagne and three glasses."

Donald made a gesture of refusal. "Coca-Cola for me."

Illya looked at him scornfully. "Come on, Donny, this is London, not…where is it you're from?"

"Circleville, Ohio."

"This is not Circleville, Ohio."

"Just Coke, please," Donald said firmly, addressing the waitress.

Illya rubbed the tip of his nose. "You sure it's not Squaresville, Ohio," he said and laughed unpleasantly.

The next song was too loud for conversation. After the champagne arrived, Illya raised his glass in a toast. "To Fancy," he shouted and drained the glass. As he refilled it, he draped his other arm along the back of her chair, his thumb drawing lazy circles on the edge of her shoulder. Donald sipped his Coke and watched with furrowed brow.

Gratified by the frown, she leaned forward to evade Illya's touch. The memories it evoked were pleasant but distracting. Etienne had rested his arm behind her in that way. His long, slender fingers would curve against her side, sometimes caressing the edge of her breast when no one was watching. On those nights they would leave the party early. It was all so long ago, in another lifetime.

When the band began a comparatively quieter song, Illya drawled, "So, Donny, what do you do?"

Donald straightened his shoulders. "I'm with Barnes & Babcock."

"A banker?" Illya looked him over, his amusement edged with contempt. "Never would have guessed."

"And what do you do, Asquith?"

He rubbed at his nose. "Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. You know how it is."

"Not really."

"Well, mostly I look after Fancy's interests. Don't I, darling?" He pinched her chin. "A pretty face, but no head for business. Someone's got to keep that ancestral pile of yours standing."

She jerked her face from his hand. "My bedroom still has a leak, Victor."

An ugly look crossed his face, and he drank deeply of his champagne. When he put the glass down, he said with exaggerated nonchalance, "Old Hawkins hasn't had that fixed? Must be getting past his prime."

Illya was very good at his work. If she observed him carefully, she could pick up a few more tricks of the trade. A better reason for watching him than her current one, which felt uncomfortably like thirst.

"He can't fix it until you authorize the funds," she said. "He's written you several times."

"Funny, I'm sure I took care of that. Here's an idea. Why don't we drive down there this weekend, just you and me?" The hand on the chair back reached up to fondle a dangling curl. "I'll look into this roof situation, and then we can find other ways to entertain ourselves." His finger skimmed the edge of her ear.

A tempting offer, which was a thought that could not show on her face. "Actually, Donald and I had plans for this weekend." Her eyes pleaded with Marsden, and her foot prodded him under the table.

Donald coughed on a mouthful of soda. "Yes, we're going to, uh, Bath."

"Is that so?" Illya drawled. "Taking the waters?"

"I'm not sure what you mean. I've read that the city dates back to Roman times. We have nothing like that in the U.S."

"Nothing like that either." Illya gestured to a girl on the edge of the dance floor whose dress was made entirely from triangles of orange plastic.

Donald frowned. "Definitely not in Ohio."

The girl in the orange triangles smiled at Illya provocatively and waggled her fingers. "Pardon me." He drained his glass and headed for the dance floor.

"You're right, Frannie. There's something fishy about that guy." Donald shook his head. "Looks as if he's been hitting the bottle pretty hard too."

She watched Illya dance, a perfect imitation of a man a little worse for the drink trying a little too hard. "We're lucky if that's all he's been hitting."

Donald's brown eyes looked at her in confusion. She tapped the tip of her nose.

"No," he said, sounding scandalized.

"That's why the roof isn't fixed, I'm certain of it. He's spent the money on drugs." At the last word, her voice dropped to a stage whisper.

Donald whistled.

"He has a way of looking at me, almost like I'm…unclothed." She dropped her eyes so her lashes fanned demurely against her cheeks. "And then when he touches me." She shuddered. Her lip trembled.

"Hey, there. Don't do that." He scrambled for his handkerchief. When he held it out to her, she grasped his hand and raised tear-filled eyes to his.

"Oh, Donald. If I had to marry Victor, I think I'd go mad."

He squeezed her fingers, then dabbed at her eyes clumsily. "Are you sure it's marriage he wants and not just…" Even in the low light, she could see his cheeks flush. "Well, you know."

"I'm positive. If I marry someone else, he'll lose access to my money. And if he's been embezzling, it would be bound to come out."

He lowered the handkerchief and squinted his eyes in thought. "It will take a while to sort out this trouble that Louise and her father are in. Maybe when I come back, I could look into your accounts, discreetly, of course, and make sure there's been no funny business."

She scooted forward until her knee touched his. Her hand clutched his sleeve. "And what if you don't come back?"

"What?"

"That man from UNCLE told you Louise was in danger. If you go to her, you'll be in danger too."

He patted her fingers. "I can handle myself. I might not have seen combat, but I did serve."

The tears returned to her eyes. "These are cut-throats and murderers you'd be up against. UNCLE said they'd do everything in their power to keep Louise and her father safe. But who's going to keep me safe? Without you, I've no one."

His large hand pressed hers. "Gee, Frannie, when you talk like that, I don't know what to do."

She mustered her most adoring gaze. "You will, Donald. I know you won't let me down."


	4. Chapter 4

Clack, clack, clack. The girl in the triangles knocked her hip against his. Her gyrations had already loosened one orange segment, which dangled below her hemline by a wire ring.

Illya was in no position to condemn her sartorial adventures. If that dubious King's Road shop had been properly lit, he would never have consented to his own outfit. The reek of incense and patchouli clung to him still. Apart from the ridiculous dress, the girl was an attractive dance partner. Napoleon would be envious of this night, particularly when he read a report which covered the Jacobite Club in thorough detail.

Or in fairly thorough detail. He looked over the bouncing shoulder to the corner, where an iridescent dress caught the light and sent it back in flashes of blue and violet. Beldon was correct. Miss Pemberley had Marsden eating out of the palm of her hand. Quite likely he had spoken from experience. Why else would he have given her carte blanche on this affair? That couture Lurex shift would have cost the earth. His own clothes certainly had. Harry's largesse was never motivated by altruism.

The girls on stage vamped their song to a conclusion. As he watched, Miss Pemberley adjusted the silver flower decorating her upswept curls. He was recalled. He steered his partner within earshot of the table. Her dress clattered as he dipped her back. "_À bientôt, ma chérie_."

When righted, the girl yanked the dangling triangle from her hem. She slipped her fingers beneath his lapel and, with a wink, tucked it into his shirt pocket. Then she skipped back onto the dance floor.

As Illya circled the table, Marsden withdrew his hand from Miss Pemberley's grasp but kept his eyes fixed on her face. He had the look of a dog invited from the hitherto satisfactory comforts of his kennel into the mysterious, shining warmth of the house. Poor bastard. Little did he guess he would soon be out on the street.

Illya paused behind Miss Pemberley's chair. "Fancy a dance, love?" He stroked her arms from shoulder to elbow, his fingertips gliding over her skin. A subtle thrill, like a static charge, hummed through his body. A normal biological reaction, one that he would not allow to disconcert him. Thanks to Thrush, each mission rolled into the next, and it had been a long while since he had satisfied that urge. He was loath to poach in Beldon's preserves, however.

She answered his question in tones of barely concealed dismay. "No, thank you, Victor. I'd rather sit."

"Now, don't be a bore." He grasped her arms and drew her back, pressing her shoulders against him. "Donny won't mind. It will give him a chance to watch the dollybirds. Very short plumage this season." He winked at Marsden.

The banker's mild eyes reflected confusion, then affront. "Frances is the only 'bird' I'm here for, Asquith."

Illya bent low, his breath rustling the curl at her cheek. She smelled like a Yardley's display. Fresh notes of violet and bergamot relieved the fug of incense surrounding him. His heartbeat quickened. "Come on, Fancy. Let's see you shake it in that dress."

Her body was rigid with mock protest, but he felt the tiniest tremor course through her. Or perhaps it was his own fingers that shook. Vivid, unprofessional imaginings clamored to take the forefront of this thoughts. Beldon had said to enjoy his amenities. What would be the harm?

"Dance with me," he urged gruffly. Perhaps he had drunk too much, for rarely did a role consume him to this extent. The line between fantasy and reality blurred. In that moment, he was Victor, at the mercy of unbounded appetites, desperate to possess the woman before him. Her body he would worship, along with all the worldly goods she would endow.

"Please, Victor," she said breathlessly, "my head is very bad."

"A headache?" he murmured, his words only for her. "I have a cure for that."

"Let me guess. More champagne?" Marsden asked.

His attempt at contemptuous laughter broke into Illya's awareness. Apparently Marsden could read lips. He straightened. He was himself again, and she was still _une allumeuse_.

"That's part of it," he responded, imbuing his smile with as much lechery as possible.

Miss Pemberley pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's quite useless, I'm afraid."

Silently, he agreed. Aloud he said, "A martyr to headaches already? You're not even married." He lifted her chin until her upturned face was looking at his. "At least not yet."

Marsden cleared his throat. "I plan to fix that, as soon as Frances names the day."

Illya released Miss Pemberley's chin. "Pardon?"

"Donald has asked me to marry him." She extended her hand to Marsden, who immediately engulfed it in his larger ones. "I have accepted," she said.

Illya blinked. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Miss Pemberley had done it. Marsden would break with Louise Latner. Louise and her father would go into UNCLE's protective custody. UNCLE would deny Thrush an eminent scientist. Another mission successfully accomplished. Instead of satisfaction, however, he felt only Victor's anger. This affair could not end soon enough.

"I suppose you want my blessing," he said after what felt like minutes.

"We'd appreciate it, naturally, but I don't think your trusteeship covers matters of the heart."

"Not as such, though I could make things difficult." Illya sat down heavily and refilled his glass. "If I were concerned that Fancy had chosen someone unworthy of her, that is."

"I can provide for Frances. Don't you worry about that."

He rubbed at his nose in agitation. "But I do worry, Donny. That's my job."

"Well, it'll be my job soon. This stint in England has put me in line for a promotion."

"A large one, I hope." He indicated Miss Pemberley's dress with a tilt of his glass. "Fancy has very expensive tastes."

"Big enough. As for the leaky roof and Frances' other interests, you couldn't ask for them to be in better hands."

Illya flexed his ringed fingers. "Not to slight you, Donny, but I never imagined them in better hands than my own."

"You're concerned for her future, of course. Right now I'm just the proverbial pig in a poke." The bluff good humor in Marsden's laugh had a forced edge.

"Something like that."

The band began a song distinguished more by its raucous noise than its melodiousness. Marsden frowned. "I can barely hear myself think in this place. Let's go to my hotel. I've got some papers there that'll help relieve any doubts you've got about me. In turn, you can give me a better idea of Frances' financial picture."

Illya watched a knot of girls cross to the stairs leading up to the bar. "I've a terrible memory for figures. At least that kind." He tugged at his nose, then rose abruptly. "Tell you what, you two get us a taxi, and I'll join you shortly. I've something to take care of first."

Sir Ranulph Cubbitt looked on, his immense mustache bristling in disapproval, as Illya examined himself in the Gents' mirror. His disguise was holding up. Another application of eye drops gave his pupils a telltale dilation without the blurred vision, though the special formula did little to ease the increased sensitivity to light. He escaped the glare of the club with relief and strolled down the dusky pavement.

A taxi waited at the curb nearby. The passing headlights illuminated its back window, silhouetting two faces about to meet. Miss Pemberley had started to clock overtime. Illya quickened his pace. When he opened the cab door, Marsden was pocketing his handkerchief. A smudge of shimmering pink remained below his lip. Miss Pemberley examined her face in a compact.

"Now, now, my tulips," he trilled, "save something for the wedding trip."

Rather than taking a jump seat, Illya squeezed between the pair and wrapped his arms around their shoulders. "I've had a brilliant idea. When you take Fancy to the States, I can look after things on this side of the Pond. No reason to let sordid business disrupt your newly-wedded bliss."

"Thanks, Asquith, but I mean to handle it myself."

"Don't reject my offer out of hand. Just think on it a bit. I know if I had Fancy on a honeymoon, finance will be the last thing on my mind." It was too dark for a wink, so he sniggered instead.

As the taxi crossed London, Illya produced a manic stream of risqué anecdotes, fueled by a nervous energy he associated more with the beginning of a mission than the conclusion. To his left Marsden sat stiff with offense, the formality of attentive grunts finally dissolving into disapproving silence. Miss Pemberley leaned to the right with her head resting against the window and uttered the occasional "Victor, please!" to his more outrageous observances. Beneath her icy surface, a diffuse flow of amusement warmed the chill depths. If she hoped to reach Section II, she would need to suppress such reactions. Not every mark was as stolid and unimaginative as Marsden.

The taxi pulled up before an imposing Victorian façade. The front awning was emblazoned with a twelve-pointed star. "The Eastern Grande. Of course," Illya said drily.

"I'm lucky it's so close to the bank," Marsden replied. "'For a winning stay, stay Wynten.'"

The hotel lobby was elegantly appointed and corporately branded. From floor to ceiling, the familiar star logo reassured U.S. tourists and businessmen that air-conditioning, en suite bathrooms, and in-room televisions would make their international stay as American as possible.

Illya rolled his eyes as they crossed to the desk. "How it cheers me that Fancy's chosen someone so predictable. No nasty, uncomfortable adventures will disrupt her future."

Marsden peered back at him with suspicion. "Bankers like things to be steady and predictable," he said, almost apologetically. "Though nothing's been that way since I got here." He paused and, looking at Miss Pemberley, made an awkward sweep of his arm. "Meeting you, Frannie, was just like getting a knock on the head. Now all I see is stars."

Her eyes traveled around the lobby and returned to Marsden with surprise. She put her hand on his lapel. "Why, Donald, that's lovely."

Illya drew up beside her. "I bet that's just what Wynten said when he proposed," he sneered.

Miss Pemberley rounded on him, eyes flashing. "She gave him the brooch out of love, to help save his business. And out of love he worked like a dog to win it back for her. It's very romantic."

Her anger was unfeigned. His nerves needed an outlet, and a row would do as well as anything…almost anything. He jerked his thumb toward a plaque which memorialized the company's history, a fixture in every Wynten property.

"It's very good advertising copy, and likely just as apocryphal." He brought his face closer to hers. "Life's not a fairy story, Fancy," he growled.

"You're wrong." She leaned forward as well, violets and bergamot preceding her. "Life is a fairy story. One where—"

"Where stepsisters have their eyes plucked out?"

Her own changeable eyes, so near to his, shone with anger and anticipation. "As do some princes."

"And a mermaid dissolves into sea foam."

Her lips began to stretch, teasing him with the thought of her Cheshire Cat grin. "And a greedy little man tears himself in half," she said.

"Only if you say his name." To hear his name on her lips in that prim accent, redolent of Old St. Petersburg, would tear him to pieces. It must be the eye drops. Perhaps in combination with alcohol, they acted as a narcotic, reducing inhibitions. He would have to inform the lab of this potential side effect.

Her lips parted. He held his breath.

"Frannie?" Marsden said.

With that one word, Marsden triggered an implosion. A flash of white heat lit her eyes. She recoiled into the curve of Marsden's extended arm, and her gaze fixed on the banker with pathetic adoration. "And brave knights rescue fair maidens."

Illya watched as Marsden's hands settled heavily on her shoulders. Soft, silken shoulders, masking hidden strength. Like pearls before swine. "If I were Wynten, I'd have sold the Star and bought a yacht," he declared, brushing past them. "Who needs a string of hotels when you can sail around the world?"

At the front desk, the clerk handed Marsden his key and a piece of paper. "Here you are, sir. A telephone call came in for you, as well."

"Thank you." He handed his key to Miss Pemberley. "Here, take Asquith up to my room while I return this call. Order some drinks."

Illya watched their exchange in a mirror. Miss Pemberley looked at Marsden with dismay. He mouthed the word 'Louise.' She nodded. He moved to step by her, paused, then wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her firmly.

Illya's lip curled. "Apparently Ohio is not so different from London after all."

Marsden ignored him. "I won't be long," he said and headed for the telephones.

Illya followed Miss Pemberley into the elevator. He supposed he should acknowledge her success, but he was in no mood to be gracious. The sparkle in her eyes told him she took the compliment as given.

"Marsden seems to know his way around the back seat of a car," he said.

She shrugged. "Not as well as you'd think, considering he and Louise have been together since they were kids. That's a lot of time to practice." There was little sympathy in her tone.

"Do you feel at all bad for her?"

The wrinkle of consideration formed between her brows. "She'll be better off without him. Their relationship was obviously going nowhere. He could have married her a dozen times over if he had really wanted to."

"And Marsden? He had no hesitation about marrying Frances."

"A banker should know better." She made a scoffing exhalation. "Selling out of a stable, long-term investment for a get-rich-quick scheme? You get what you deserve."

"Hard, aren't you?"

She leaned her head back against the elevator wall. "Maybe, _angelochek moi_. Or maybe it's just my armor."

Was she capable of giving a straight answer? He thought not. Perhaps it was that elusiveness which attracted Beldon. "And beneath the armor?" he asked in earnest.

Her eyes widened at his tone. He knew the sensation that came when a lock turned, a door eased in, and a face peered through the opening.

The elevator shuddered to a halt. She straightened. He could feel the door shut. "Beneath this armor? Nonsense and wine and everything nice. Remember?"

When they reached Marsden's room, Illya took the key and let them in. The small hotel suite was tastefully but generically furnished. He tossed the key onto an end table, where it landed in front of an oval frame.

He picked up the portrait. Even with her cat-eye glasses and small, tight-lipped smile, Louise Latner had a conventional prettiness that exceeded Miss Pemberley's. Yet Illya was in no doubt as to why Marsden had chosen as he did. He watched her go to the writing desk and pick up the phone. Her figure was good, and she knew how to dress it to best effect. From an extravagantly beaded collar, the halter-neck shift descended to her knees with deceptive simplicity. The iridescent fabric was as elusory as its wearer, shifting from violet to blue whenever she moved. Appearance, however, was not at the heart of her allure.

"Room service. This is 412. Two stingers, please, one cognac, one vodka." She smiled at him mischievously. "And one Coca-Cola on the rocks. Neat."

Effervescence? Vitality? He could not name the quality that radiated from within her. The atmosphere of a room changed with her presence. A dangerous talent to possess, and he suspected she knew it.

He returned the portrait to the table. "I need a convincing reason to leave. Marsden will not talk about Louise while I am here."

"True, but Victor wouldn't give up that easily. Donald should be the one to send you packing."

"I have been as repellent as I know how to be. He is either thick-skinned or thick-headed."

She reclined into the corner of the sofa. "If we've learned anything about Donald, it's that he needs the proper motivation. I vote for a nice, old-fashioned tussle. He's probably always wanted to say, 'Unhand her, you fiend!'"

"How melodramatic." It was just the scenario he hoped to avoid. He had touched her too much already. "And very likely to get out of hand. We do not want to disturb the other guests and bring in the management."

"Don't worry about that. This suite is practically sound proof."

"And what reason would you have to know that?" He could think of several reasons, none of them satisfactory.

He waited for fireworks. Instead her wry smile brought heat to his cheeks. "Just a handy little tidbit I picked up somewhere. Donald looked completely haggard the day I met him and said he couldn't get a wink of sleep. So I told him there was a quieter suite to be had. He was so grateful he asked me to dinner."

"I still think it could backfire. Marsden might see you in my arms and take it the wrong way."

"Well, if you're going to be squeamish, there's another way." Her smile was amused, but the tiniest relaxation of her posture told him she shared his sense of reprieve.

"Does it involve a drink and my face?"

"Just your face. I'm taking you up on your previous offer."

When Marsden returned, Illya sat on the sofa, pressing a cool highball glass to an angry, red welt on his cheek.

"Where's Frannie?" he asked, scanning the room. His voice rang with a new energy.

"In the bathroom. Won't come out."

Marsden knocked on the door. "Frannie, it's me, Donald."

The lock clicked, the door opened tentatively, and a face peeked through the crack. With a cry of relief, Miss Pemberley flung the door wide and threw herself onto his chest. "Donald, I'm so glad you're back."

The gaze that feasted on her was no longer staid and banker-ish. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing now." She looked at Illya, then hid her face in Marsden's shoulder. "Victor. He…he…"

Illya shrugged. "Just wanted to kiss the bride, Donny."

The large hands spanning her waist clenched tightly, crushing the fabric. "Don't worry, Frannie. I can take care of you. I can take care of everything now."

"You mean, you…?"

"I mean, it's all arranged." He wound his arms around her tightly and buried his face in her upswept curls. "Nothing will come between us."

Illya felt a burning near his heart. A real burning, singeing his skin. A plume of acrid smoke rose from his shirt pocket. He tried to stand, but his legs would not respond. His hands were like lead weights. Darkness tunneled his vision. His last conscious thought was of a pair of wide blue-violet eyes staring at him triumphantly before the blackness took him.


	5. Chapter 5

Faustina Pemberley rubbed absently at her tingling fingers. Her whole body tingled. To feel triumphant was foolish, unprofessional, and probably premature. Another successful honeypot was unlikely to garner attention or accolades. This time, however, her success was shared by one of UNCLE's top agents. The report of this affair would cross Waverly's desk. He would read that she was making good, even if it was just as a femme fatale. She owed him that.

'The Northern Dvina flowing beneath its blanket of ice.' The phrase resurfaced in her mind, and a torrent of emotion overflowed her carefully erected embankments. Had it really been only hours since she had heard those words? He could not know what they had done to her. Her passions were in full bloom, her thoughts of him running tender and sensual and as red as the blood in her veins. Other words returned, this time from her grandmother. 'Beware our hot blood, _dushenka_. Remember, all our novels end in catastrophe.'

The suite's outer door opened. With an effort of will, she closed the floodgates and refocused her distracted thoughts.

"Where's Frannie?"

"In the bathroom. Won't come out."

Her chest tightened at the sound of Illya's voice. Any comfortable assumptions that she had outgrown her youthful folly were shattered. She had known him less than a day, yet she was knee-deep in infatuation. Could he tell? She had practically invited him to make love to her. Thank goodness for that blanket of ice. Or perhaps it had been the gold band. The notion that he might be married sobered her, as did the memory that such considerations had never stopped her before.

A knock rattled the door. "Frannie, it's me, Donald." His voice, tremulous with new urgency, grated on her nerves. He might require anti-aggression spray after all.

She cracked the door open, then gave a relieved cry and threw herself onto the banker's chest. "Donald, I'm so glad you're back."

His hands went to her waist. She knew the steps of this dance by heart, and her partners never realized she was leading.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing now." She looked at Illya, hungry for the sight of him. He sprawled on the sofa, wearing a sullen moue perfectly suited to his lips. Did he celebrate the end of a successful mission? Did he celebrate alone? She hid her face in Marsden's shoulder. "Victor. He…he…"

"Just wanted to kiss the bride, Donny."

If only he had. Her dress shifted as Donald clenched the fabric in his fists. "Don't worry, Frannie. I can take care of you. I can take care of everything now."

"You mean, you…?"

"I mean, it's all arranged." His arms tightened around her, and his face pressed into her curls. "Nothing will come between us."

The engagement to Louise was off. Triumph surged once more. She turned her eyes to Illya. If he gave an invitation, she would not refuse. She drummed her freshly-manicured nails on the banker's lapel. Illya would return to New York with far more interesting marks than a welt on his cheek.

She blinked. A strange haze blurred Illya's face. Behind the wire-framed glasses, his eyes held shock and anger. Then they rolled back as he collapsed into the sofa's corner.

"Victor!" She pushed away from Donald's embrace.

"About time he passed out. He sure can hold his liquor." He drew her back against his chest.

"It's more than that."

She twisted free and ran to the sofa. A trickle of smoke rose from under Illya's raffish jacket. She pushed the lapel aside. A black triangle was seared into his pocket, a mockery of his UNCLE security badge. The orange plastic singed her fingers as she tore it from his shirt, and its acrid fumes stung her throat. She coughed.

"Be careful," Donald barked. He snatched the triangle away, his hand wrapped in his handkerchief.

While the banker smothered the device in the ice bucket, she pulled off Illya's glasses and slapped his cheeks. His head shifted limply with each smack of her hand. but he did not awaken. She yanked a dangling bead from her collar and pushed it between his lips. The boys in Research had bragged that Capsule R would counteract any narco-vapor. They had better be right. "I've got to call for help," she said, as she felt for his communicator. "Someone's tried to kill Victor."

"That's not Victor."

Her searching hands froze. She knew the heart-stopping sensation of missing a stair step. For a moment she was in free-fall, consumed with a vision of impending disaster. She shook her head to clear it. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I'm sure it's a good likeness. It would have to be to fool you. These men from UNCLE are very clever."

Maybe too clever for their own good. Beneath the crimson shirt, Illya's chest rose and fell steadily. She reluctantly lifted her hand from the warm, reassuring rhythm. "That doesn't make sense. UNCLE is going to protect Louise."

"They lied. They're the cut-throats and murderers."

"That's madness, Donald. Who told you this?"

He ignored the question. "Would Victor be armed?" Before she could prevent it, he flipped Illya's jacket back, revealing the Special holstered beneath his arm. "I had no other choice."

She searched Donald's face, but found no trace of his bluff good humor. "What have you done?"

He held up a small remote. "I only wish it was a gun. Watching him paw at you was bad enough, but for him to kiss you..." His mild eyes hardened. "He should be shot."

Donald reached for the Special. She sprang between them and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Don't, Donald. You're frightening me."

He staggered back as she leaned in with her full weight. His arms encircled her. "Don't be scared, Frannie. I kept you safe, just like you wanted."

"Where did you get such a thing?"

"You were right about fairy tales. Turns out I have a fairy godmother."

So much for steady and predictable. She tried to push away, but his arms were like iron bands around her.

"I'm not crazy," he said. "What else do you call it when someone drops in from out of the blue and fulfills your wildest dreams?"

"Too good to be true." Thrush ploys always were.

He laughed. "That's what I thought at first, but she's the real deal. When I think how UNCLE has persecuted that sweet old girl, hounding her out of house and home, it makes my blood boil."

A profile leapt to mind from the most recent Section briefing; agenda item: adversaries known to be in England.

"Who is this woman?"

"Edith Partridge." He squinted his eyes in thought. "My grandma's name was Edith. Maybe that's why I knew I could trust her."

Grandmothers rarely had UNCLE dossiers with mentions of the rack and hot pokers. She had to alert Headquarters. Illya needed medical attention and Donald an interrogation. Then the capture of Edith Partridge would become a Section II affair, with Beldon likely to take a hand and much of the glory. Perhaps she would not be entirely off the mission. Harry wanted her, and she could use that as leverage. And maybe, just maybe, Illya would request that she continue.

She looked deeply into Donald's eyes and cupped his cheek in her hand. "I'm going to ring the police. They must find out what's happened to the real Victor."

He kissed her palm. "Mrs. Partridge will take care of that. I told you, she's a fairy godmother."

"Is she a doctor?" Her hand slid around to caress the nape of his neck. "Whatever he's done, this man needs to be taken to hospital."

"She can take care of him too. You'll see." He glanced to Illya with a look of smug defiance, then pressed his lips to hers.

She had read how Edith Partridge took care of UNCLE agents. She had no desire to experience it firsthand. A change of tactics was in order. Her lip trembled as Donald lifted his face. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Don't cry, Frannie, please," he pleaded.

The tears spilled down her cheeks. "I can't help it. I'm frightened," she sobbed. "You promised to take care of me."

"I will."

"Then let me bring in the authorities."

He removed one hand from her waist and felt his pockets. "Darn it. My handkerchief's in the ice bucket."

"I've one in my handbag."

"I'll get it."

He crossed to the desk. She hated to do it, but he had left her no choice. The pen in her handbag was embedded with a sleep dart. The faster Donald was unconscious, the faster she could get them out of there.

He returned with her bag. As she opened the clasp, his arm encircled her tightly. With the other, he clamped his handkerchief over her mouth. "I'm sorry, Frannie."

Fumes stung her nostrils and throat. She tried to fight him, but already her limbs felt like rubber. The handbag fell to the floor, its contents scattering around their feet. Donald stepped forward to lower her onto the sofa. He stumbled. While he bent to pick up her things, she dragged her hand up to her throat and then to her mouth. She felt Capsule R dissolve under her tongue.

"Everything will be okay. You'll see. Mrs. Partridge will make sure of that." Donald's voice sounded very far away. She was tumbling down a deep hole. The disc of light at the top got smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely. Her last conscious thought was that Illya would be there when she finally reached the bottom…and he would be out of humor.


	6. Chapter 6

The polar lights danced across the starlit sky. Beneath the floor of ice, golden dragon fish swam in the reflected iridescence, darting to and fro to the pulsating music. Beldon had outdone himself this time. He held court from atop a long table, recumbent and bound, while a buxom Scandinavian attendant stretched the tension from him.

The barman listened sympathetically as someone's grandmother poured out a tale of woe. A hat like a roulette wheel obscured her face, the modish orange plastic embellished by a stuffed partridge. "I had to lock her in that tower," she said. "It was for her own good. Too hot-blooded."

A hand caressed Faustina's back. A thousand fingers, strong but gentle, played upon her spine with the skill of a virtuoso. Neck to tailbone, she tingled in their wake. Then they began to trace her ribs, making the journey around her side with an agonizing leisure.

"Ready to go?" she asked, smiling.

"Aren't you?"

She put her hand on his thigh. "We have other ways to entertain ourselves." Her fingers carved trails in the soft, warm velvet. She felt his muscles contract.

His lips grazed her ear as he growled, "I'll get your wrap."

The barman, tall and lean, stood before her. "Warm your drink?" he asked. Before she could decline, he plunged an iron poker into her glass. The wine erupted into flame, filling the air with incense and spices.

She ran her eyes up Etienne's elegant frame, up, up, up to his face. "You shouldn't have bothered. We're calling it a night."

She sensed his shrug, though his shoulders did not move. His Gallic smile was one of patient resignation tinged with cynicism. "_Un clou chasse l'autre_."

A crimson wrap fell heavily about her shoulders. She clutched the ends and found a charred hole marring the silk.

Etienne looked down, his head wreathed in stars. "Asquith," he said with a nod.

"Dubreton."

She turned slowly toward the shorter blond, savoring the anticipation. His features were stern in their repose. Then a slight denting at the corners of his lips tantalized her. He knew what she wanted, the gleaming flash of white teeth, but he would make her wait.

"Shall we?" he asked, the polar lights dancing in his eyes.

She stepped towards him. The ice crackled, and a web of fractures radiated from under her foot. "I can't."

"_Une allumeuse_."

She turned her face from his accusing words. "Not with you."

A hand drew her chin upwards. She looked into his hovering face. "Some things are worth waiting for," he said, as his lips drew near to hers.

With a sound like the crashing of a chandelier, the ice beneath her feet shattered. She plunged through the breach. Her fingers scrabbled the frozen floor but found no purchase along its jagged edge. The wrap surrounded her like a trail of blood in the water, slowly dragging her down. With savage desperation, she fought free of the entanglement. The bath water, freshly-heated, scalded her skin as she climbed back to the surface. She found the ice sealed. Donald's face, bleary and distorted, peered down at her through the impenetrable barrier. As she drummed against it with her fists, he pocketed the remote control and walked away.

~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~

Faustina awoke to a knocking at the door. The dreamscape gradually receded. Waves of nausea cascaded over her as Capsule R warred with the narco-vapor in her system. She felt confused, exposed. How long had she been out? Was she still in the suite? Where was Illya?

Someone fumbled with the locks. She dragged open her heavy lids and peered through the slits. Between her false lashes, a brown Chelsea boot was just visible. Illya remained sprawled on the sofa and, judging by the awkward angle of his foot, unconscious.

His leg was within her reach. She needed to grasp that soft velvet again, to feel the warmth and strength it enveloped. She stretched out towards him; her hand did not respond. It was just as well. She was only remembering a dream. He was not really hers to cling to.

She risked opening her lids further. On the opposite wall, the windows were still dark with night. The ice bucket stood on the writing desk, a striped handkerchief crumpled beside it. What the hell had Donald been thinking?

His back was reflected in the window pane. A gold sash descended from one shoulder to the opposite hip. He pulled the door open and stepped back, giving the awkward half-bow of an American faced with someone of foreign culture and superior social rank.

A breathless voice with a pleasant sing-song quality addressed him. "Mr. Marsden, so nice to see you again."

"Mrs. Partridge." Donald bent to kiss her extended hand.

"My, my. How well you look in your emblems of office."

Edith Partridge entered the suite, accompanied by two others. Donald closed the door behind them and set the locks.

A trace of Fleeting Moment wafted through the room. Edith's file photo had been projected at the last briefing, a grainy image of a conventional matron. The dull knit suit and elaborately coiled hair were the same. Faustina found it hard to reconcile this smiling, innocuous lady with medieval torture.

Edith ran an admiring gaze over Donald as she fluttered through the introductions. "My niece and nephew, Mr. Marsden. Their father is my elder brother Charles, with whom I've been staying in Kent."

Donald nodded to them. "How do you do."

"Alexandra you may recall from earlier this evening." She gestured to the golden-haired girl with the fashionable bob, who gave a cheeky curtsy. "A regretfully unladylike ensemble, but so effective in its purpose."

The dress of orange plastic had been exchanged for a more modest artificial silk, but she was undoubtedly the girl Illya had danced with at the Jacobite Club. Faustina felt a surge of white hot anger. At its heart, unconsumed, lay the stinging awareness that hers had often been the betrayer's kiss.

Edith's nephew, a twin to Alexandra, set a satchel on the closest chair. With his fair hair curling over his ears, only his clothes distinguished him from his sister. Faustina slanted her gaze, but Illya's blond mop was just beyond her peripheral vision. Under different circumstances, she would have favored him with a slow grin. The thought of his blue eyes, glacial with annoyance, cooled her anger.

"Now, don't mind Edward. He and his sister must prepare for Emory's arrival." Edith fingered the lace trim on her blouse. "He really is quite clever. I hope you were able to use his little device successfully."

"Yes, ma'am. Worked like a charm." Donald drew a pistol from his coat pocket, the letter K emblazoned on its grip. He presented it to Mrs. Partridge. She accepted it inexpertly and dropped it into the handbag suspended from her elbow.

Faustina shut her eyes as they came around the front of the sofa.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Kuryakin. How peaceful he looks, and even more unusual. I do hope that is the result of cosmetics and not his dangerous profession."

"Are you sure you want to do it this way? Forgive me, ma'am, but it seems like a rush job."

"Quite sure, Mr. Marsden. A bird in the hand, as they say. But do not fret. Once Emory is restored to us, you may proceed with your plans for Dr. Latner. After all, his research will be of vital importance to our country."

"Our top commodity."

Faustina's anger mounted once more. Section IV would feel her wrath. Bad intelligence cost lives. Her fury, however, and the fear that lurked behind it, would not help them now. She must don her own blanket of ice for both their sakes.

She sensed Edith draw closer. "And this must be the young lady of whom you spoke. Why does she also sleep?"

"I may have bungled that part. Frances wanted to call the police, and I couldn't think of another way to stop her."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, dear boy. The constabulary would have been most unwelcome tonight. Now I suppose you want me to get you out of this fix, to assure this young lady that all is well."

"Please, ma'am. Otherwise she's sure to be having second thoughts about me."

"Tell me, is she from a good family?"

"Good enough. The trustee sounds like a real piece of work, but she's got a manor house and a fat inheritance."

"A place in the country? How splendid. I do hope you will be as good a squire as Emory. What a sad day for Eastsnout when UNCLE took Porlock Hall from us." She sighed. "Of course, you will be married at her parish church. It seems a shame for our Minister of Finance to be married somewhere other than Partridge Island. I had envisioned a national holiday, with a beautiful ceremony and a grand ball afterwards."

"You won't be disappointed. I promised Louise a wedding better than any movie star's."

"Then you still plan to marry her?"

"Of course. She's been dreaming about it since we were kids."

"Going to have your cake and eat it too, you naughty boy?" she teased.

Donald coughed. "After all, Louise'll be living on the island, and my duties will require a lot of travel back and forth. Why should I disappoint one or the other, when I can make them both happy?"

"And yourself happiest? Well, the less said about such arrangements, the better. When it comes to love, men and women see things quite differently. In my day we were advised to overlook these little indiscretions, and it saved us much unnecessary heartache."

Faustina longed to pace, curse, scream. Tears pricked her lids. She had missed it. She prided herself on knowing men, on reading them like books. She had leveraged a career on it; two, if one counted hedonism as a career. And this was where her so-called expertise had led. A mission compromised. One of UNCLE's top agents captured. That would be the report to cross Waverly's desk.

"Here, Mr. Marsden, this should bring her round. It's a special sal volatile. I am never without it since that dreadful rain forest."

Donald waved something under her nose. Fumes burned her nostrils and throat. She coughed. The tears she had been holding back spilled over.

Continuing to feign unconsciousness was useless. She opened her eyes. Donald bent over her, his expression sheepish and pleading. Edith Partridge watched from over his shoulder. Faustina's heart sank at the keen intelligence in her sparkling gaze.

"Ah, I thought that might be the case," Edith trilled.

Donald straightened. "What do you mean?"

"Mr. Marsden, I think it best that I talk with your fiancée alone. This would be an ideal time to make the business call we discussed." She drew a slip of paper from her handbag and passed it to him. "Use one of the lobby telephones, then stay until the item has safely arrived."

"All right." He blew Faustina a kiss. "It's okay, Frannie. Mrs. Partridge will explain everything."

When he had left, Edith gestured to her niece, who locked the doors behind him. "Poor Mr. Marsden. Love is indeed blind. But that is what UNCLE was counting on, was it not?"

Every moment she could buy was one closer to Illya's awakening. And one closer to Emory Partridge's return. Faustina lifted her head. It seemed twice as heavy as usual. "I don't have an uncle" she said hoarsely, her mouth dry. "Just Victor, a distant sort-of cousin. I'm terribly worried about him."

Edith shook her head. "Lies do not become a lady. What is your name, dear?"

"Frances."

"I think not." She dropped the shawl from around her shoulders. "I believe in certain moral rules. Compliance is rewarded, and disobedience punished. While you consider that, I'm afraid I must look in your handbag."

She picked up the purse from the table, her eyes alight with anticipation. "My, it is heavy for its size." The contents poured out onto the table. "Now, let me see. Compact. Lipstick. I don't approve of the way girls color their faces nowadays. Natural beauty is so much more attractive to my mind. Atomizer. Pens." She pulled the cap off the silver one. "What a very sharp tip it has."

Edith had found the sleep dart. Faustina brought her hands into her lap. Her limbs felt less rubbery, but the effort expended to move them was still too great.

"Won't you please cooperate?" Edith asked. She perched on the arm of the sofa, Illya's head against her leg. "Our time together will be so much nicer if you do."

"I just want to go home."

Edith sighed. "Mr. Marsden must have administered a very small amount of the gas for you to be so easily roused." She turned Illya's head. When she let go, his face rolled back against her skirt. "Mr. Kuryakin, on the other hand, has had a full dose. From what I know of your Mr. Waverly, I imagine the poison in this pen is a non-lethal variety. In combination with the sleep gas, however, who knows what effect it will have."

She slowly lowered the pen. Faustina could only watch as the finely-pointed tip caressed Illya's face. Surely Edith would not go through with it. Illya was more valuable alive. If anyone was expendable, it was herself.

Edith tapped the welt on his cheek. "This is not cosmetics. Was Mr. Kuryakin being wicked?"

Faustina did not answer. She observed her adversaries, Edith on the sofa, Alexandra at the desk beside Edward, handing him items from his satchel. Her limbs tingled with renewed strength, but she did not yet trust them. If the chance came, there would only be one.

"Modern girls are so hard. It must be the awful music you listen to." Edith ran the pen over Illya's firm jaw and onto his neck. She paused over his artery. The skin dented as she pressed the tip down.

Illya's lifeblood welled up around the needle. The bile rose in Faustina's throat. She swallowed and shifted her gaze to his assailant. Edith watched the expanding crimson droplet, a smile on her lips, a hungry glow in her eyes. She had seen such a look before.

"Faustina," she said. "My name is Faustina Pemberley. Three Es."

Edith started, as if awakened from a trance. The needle was slowly withdrawn. "How sensible of you, my dear. Now we will get along so well." She replaced the pen's cap. "Faustina. An odd-sounding name. Tell me, should I expect Mr. Solo to be joining us?"

"No."

"What a shame. But thank you for an honest answer. I can always tell when someone is lying." She rose from the sofa. "Confidentially, Emory finds that trait particularly frustrating."

"I can imagine."

Edith's voice became authoritative. "Edward, we need your assistance. Alexandra, help your brother get Mr. Kuryakin into the bedroom."

Edward came and hoisted Illya under the arms. Alexandra took his feet. Together they hauled him into the other room. "So helpful. Not at all like their cousin Victoria," Edith said. "She takes after her father's side, I'm afraid. Do you think you can stand, dear?"

She could do more than stand. The twins disappeared into the bedroom. Her chance had come. "I'll try." She got to her feet and swayed drunkenly, then pressed a hand to her head.

In the blink of an eye, Illya's Special was in Edith's grasp. "What a curious hair ornament," she said. "May I see it?"

Faustina observed the pistol aimed unwaveringly at her heart and lowered her hands. Edith took the silver flower from her palm. When she pushed at the center, a small knife blade sprang from the stem. "How clever. It is reassuring to see that the traditional skills have not been completely abandoned."

Edith tested the balance of the tiny blade in her hand. "Once in South America I saw a fellow do a splendid trick. I've always wanted to try it. I'm rather an expert at knife throwing, you know."

"I didn't. We'll have to update your dossier."

She gestured to the table. "Pick up the lipstick, please, and extend it as far as you can. That's it. Now turn sideways, and hold the base between your teeth."

With the Special still trained on her, Faustina did as requested. The bedroom was quiet. Alexandra did not shriek. Edward did not crash back through the door. Illya slept on.

"To be honest, I am sadly out of practice," Edith said. "And my left hand was never quite as accurate. So don't be too disappointed, dear, if I miss. Now stand perfectly still, please. One, two, three!"


	7. Chapter 7

Faustina wrapped her lips around the end of the tube of Fabergé Glacé and bit down hard. She had never been good at standing still. From the corner of her eye, she watched Edith step back and raise the knife above her shoulder. "One."

She could blame her nomadic childhood, but she had been unsettled from the cradle. A legacy from her father, whose restlessness had become mythic in its description. 'The Man Who Never Sleeps.' All myths have some basis in reality. "A company is like a shark, doll-face. If it stops moving, it dies."

The Special remained steady at Edith's hip. "Two."

When she died, she wanted to go down fighting, not posed like an assistant on a Sunday variety show. But her options were few. Stand and be skewered, or resist and be shot. The lady or the tiger.

"Three!"

"Aunt Edith!"

As the blade flew from her fingers, Edith turned toward her niece's hail. Faustina watched it spin towards her in a silver blur. She leaned back sharply, and the knife passed through the space her head had occupied a moment before. She waited for the retort of Illya's pistol. None came.

Edith blinked at her niece. "Alexandra, dear, you gave me quite a start."

"Eddie's little toy burned his chest."

Her twin appeared behind her and slouched against the doorframe. "Your fault, you gormless girl. I told you to put it in his jacket, not his shirt."

"His jacket had no pocket, you nit."

"That's enough. If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all." Edith waved the Special at them absently. "Alexandra, see if Mr. Marsden has a first aid kit. Edward, continue your preparations."

Edward returned to the desk as Alexandra flounced into the bathroom. Edith looked back to Faustina. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Did I sever the lipstick?" she asked eagerly.

Faustina held up the tube. "A bit wide of the mark."

Edith's face fell in childlike disappointment. "That's too bad. Perhaps we can try again later. First I think we should tend to Mr. Kuryakin." She gestured toward the bedroom as if ushering in a guest. Faustina nodded graciously and preceded her through the doorway.

"This plan to trade Illya for your husband," Faustina said. "What makes you think Thrush won't capture the lot of us?"

Edith made a disapproving noise. "Eavesdropping is most unladylike."

Illya lay atop the double bed, his ankles bound. Edith ran her eyes over him. "So physical looking, even in sleep. I must say, it was very naughty of him and Mr. Solo to leave poor Emory behind, particularly after he asked to go with them. Thrush might have captured him there and then."

Faustina remembered the affair. When top Enforcement agents landed themselves in the hospital, it was a Roman holiday for Section III. "By the time an extraction team arrived, your husband was already gone."

"Of course, he was. I arrived in Partridgeville just in time." Her free hand fluttered over Illya, never quite touching him. "Even so, Thrush has made the last several months most uncomfortable, hounding us the way they have over that silly quadrillenium. Then dear Emory would insist on going to a Regimental Dinner. I warned him against it, but he can be very stubborn. And Thrush got him, just as I said they would. I hope he remembers that next time he's tempted to ignore my advice."

Alexandra returned with a small metal box marked First Aid Travelkit. "I found one."

"Thank you. Could you order tea now, dear?" She turned to Faustina. "Won't you join us?"

"Thanks, but I prefer coffee."

"Ah, yes. Americans usually do. I remember making it for your servicemen during the war." She smiled dreamily. "How handsome they were in their uniforms. Will Mr. Kuryakin take tea, do you think?"

"If his head feels anything like mine, probably coffee. But you might order some jam on the side, just in case."

"Really? If you say so. Alexandra, call down for tea and coffee, dear, then help your brother finish his work."

As she left, Edith pulled Illya's jacket aside and frowned at the scorch in his shirt. "If he were my boy, I wouldn't let him run about getting into these messes. We cannot attend to him properly with this coat on. I must ask you to take care of it, Faustina. My health is not what it once was since that dreadful rainforest."

Faustina knelt on the bed beside him. It would not be the first time she had wrestled an unconscious man out of his clothes. She looked down at Illya, old sensations stirring. Hunger and hesitation. Once she touched him, she would likely want to again. And again. Taking a deep breath, she pictured Armand passed out across the coverlet, too stoned to bother undressing. Indignation and contempt were less distracting.

She rolled Illya onto his side and worked one arm from its sleeve. Incense, patchouli, and a trace of something more sinister scented the air. "Donald is quite a success story," she offered, hoping to keep Edith talking. "'Small-town Ohioan becomes Minister of Finance.'"

"Yes, isn't he? Partridge Island would be a mere dream without Mr. Marsden. We've never had a better banker."

"Was Dr. Latner the free toaster with any new account?"

"Toaster? I don't believe I understand, dear. It certainly was a pleasant surprise when Mr. Marsden suggested he had an idea for securing Emory's release." She sighed in satisfaction when Illya's other arm came free of his jacket. "How very efficient you are. Tell me, were you ever a nurse?"

"No." Nor a nursemaid either. When the nights Armand had undressed for pleasure became outnumbered by ones when he did not undress at all, she had moved on. There were always other admiring eyes to stir new romantic dreams. She felt a surge of sympathy for Louise Latner. Her dreams led to confinement in a tinpot dictatorship.

Illya was not a large man, but his deadweight was a struggle to maneuver. She tossed his jacket aside and paused to catch her breath. The red figured silk, so obviously cut from a woman's dress, had caught her eyes as soon as they entered the boutique. Despite his protestations, he had looked good in it. Too good. Years had passed since she had known such a strong desire to get a man out of his shirt. She was thankful that she had outgrown those antics. And that only a lace curtain had separated the changing room from the sales floor.

Looking down at the blackened triangle, she wanted to tear the shirt from his body once more. The device was gone, the damage done. She worked her fingers between the ruffles until they found the first button. The silk parted, exposing a sliver of lightly-bronzed skin. Curious. He did not seem the type to visit a tanning bed. A beach bum? She knew an inlet on Majorca. Secluded. Private. White sands. Turquoise water. Would he like it there?

Another button, another few inches of tanned skin. His chest was hard and whipcord lean, the soft, fair hair obscuring a network of pale lines. Scars. The evidence of his occupation. Their occupation. She could pick one a night and persuade him to tell her its story. She could be very persuasive. The next night would be his turn. They could grow old before they ran out.

Infatuation was like a rip current pulling her out to deep water. As if grasping a lifeline, she picked up the small medallion he wore at the end of a thin, gold chain. St. Nicholas gazed back at her in finely-wrought detail. An odd piece for a Soviet to wear. No doubt there was a story to that as well. Perhaps a relic of a devout grandmother. 'O champion Wonderworker and superb servant of Christ...from all dangers do thou deliver us.' She placed it back onto his chest.

The ruffles continued down past his navel before disappearing beneath his low-slung pants. She pulled the shirttails free and quickly unfastened the final buttons. Then she carefully lifted the silk from his wound. Below his heart, an ugly red patch of skin had swollen and blistered.

"The poor, dear boy," Edith said mournfully as she handed over the first aid kit. "But he'll soon mend."

Faustina gently applied ointment to the burn, frustrated to feel tears sting her eyes. Illya's profusion of scars spoke to worse injuries than this one.

"This morning my tea leaves predicted that I would meet an old acquaintance," Edith said. "When Mr. Marsden told me a man from UNCLE had contacted him, I knew it must be one of those nice young men from before."

Faustina laid a gauze pad over the wound. "So you sent your niece to find out."

"I did not think UNCLE would be put off quite so easily, despite Mr. Marsden's assurances. And there was Mr. Kuryakin, just as I thought. The tea leaves are never wrong."

"Apparently." As she smoothed adhesive tape along the edge of the bandage, she felt the rhythm of his breathing quicken. Her heartbeat did the same. The Ice Prince was awakening. "I'll be sure to let our Intelligence Section know. Then maybe next time we'll see you coming."

"Were you truly surprised? I'm so glad. I admit, I did second-guess my decision to leave the remote control for Mr. Marsden. Emory's capture has shaken my confidence more than I realized." She raised an admonishing finger. "Let that be a lesson to you, dear. Always trust your instincts. Having Mr. Marsden trigger the gas was the correct choice. So too is using Mr. Kuryakin to secure Emory's release."

Faustina sat back and returned the supplies to their box. Edith patted at the bandage. "Very nicely done. I do hope Mr. Kuryakin will be this cooperative when we get to the Island. How nice it will be to have young people to talk with." She looked up coyly. "I get very lonely, you know."

"I thought you were trading him for your husband."

"Don't be silly, Faustina. Why would I give up such a valuable commodity?" She flipped Illya's shirt over the bandage, then clicked her tongue. "I do hate untidiness. Do you think Mr. Marsden would mind if we borrowed one of his shirts?"

"Mr. Marsden can go"—she censored herself—"take a long walk off a short pier."

"Now, now. Show a little respect. See what you can find in the dresser."

Faustina went to the drawers and located a white shirt, freshly pressed. When she returned to the bed, Edith had her fingers in Illya's shirt ruffles. "I had a dress of this stuff once. It was very becoming." She looked at the shirt Faustina held out. "Yes, that will do nicely."

Faustina blew a curl from her forehead and removed the shirt from its wrappings. The prospect of Edith feasting her eyes on Illya's bare chest was not a pleasant one. She did not relish the thought that they had anything in common. After unbuttoning his cuffs, she began the laborious process of exchanging silk for cotton. Holster removed. A crimson sleeve off, a white one in its place. Amid Victor's cloying aromas rose traces of soap and citrus, tantalizing her.

Donald's sleeves were too long for Illya, so she began to roll up the cuffs. "If you plan on offering me in exchange for Mr. Partridge, you'll be disappointed. I doubt they've heard of me."

"I realize that, dear. To my mind, Thrush doesn't deserve to benefit at all. I'm certain one of Emory's first official acts will be to refuse any diplomatic association with them."

"A wise move. Thrush has never been known for diplomacy." Illya's hand tightened in her grasp. She looked to Edith, who gave no sign of noticing. "In fact, they'll probably try to take over your island."

"Do you think so? Thank you for warning me." She twiddled her lace trim. "You know, I have been looking for a personal companion since leaving Porlock Hall. My last proved to be a disappointment."

Faustina fastened the front buttons of Illya's replacement shirt. "Good help is hard to find."

"How true. Do you think you might be interested in such a position?"

Faustina looked at Edith incredulously. "I think there's only one position we're likely to be in, and that's prisoners of the London Satrapy."

Edith shook her head. "In my day, young people were not so cynical. If I could get Emory out of a rain forest and the Yukon, I can certainly get him out of a hotel suite." She pulled a large, abstract pendant from her décolletage. "Does this look familiar perhaps?"

"It does." The gold cylinder resembled the miniature aqualung that Section VIII has recently begun issuing.

"Your young men left something like this behind in Partridgeville, and my nephew was able to reproduce it. He has now placed gas receptacles throughout that room. As Mr. Kuryakin has shown us, the effect is both quick and long lasting. By the time those Thrush persons wake up, we will be far away."

A knock sounded at the suite door. "Ah, that must be our tea," Edith said. She held up her hand as Faustina reached the button at the base of Illya's throat. "That's far enough, dear. I hope when Emory wakes he isn't too displeased at having shared a laundry bin with Mr. Kuryakin. He's—"

The crash of china interrupted her. A scuffle followed. Faustina recognized the thud of bodies colliding and the splinter of overturned furniture. Was it UNCLE? Had they finally uncovered the connection between Donald and Edith Partridge? A flood of relief made her light-headed.

A final crash, and the din ceased. Edward stumbled into the doorway, his clothes disheveled. A trickle of blood ran from his lip. "Room service," he gasped, "he attacked us."

"My word. Have you subdued him?"

Edward nodded. "Lex brained him with the tea pot."

Faustina's hopes fell as fast as they had risen. Whom had Alexandra struck? One of their London agents? Solo?

"This was on him," Edward said. He passed a card to his aunt.

"Whoever this Mr. Dale is, he's no gentleman." Edith held up the card for Faustina to see. A small black bird was visible in the corner. "Edward, put this Thrush person in the bath, then tidy up. We don't want your uncle arriving to a mess."

As Edward left, Edith turned to Faustina. "I'm afraid we shall have to do without tea." She shook her head. "Now, don't get too attached to Mr. Kuryakin, dear. Confidentially, I think he would make a splendid match for Alexandra. Such a resourceful girl. I will have to bring Emory around, of course. He's very concerned about breeding."

Faustina looked down. Illya's hand was clutched between hers and held fast to her chest. Slowly she lowered it back onto the bed.

"Chin up, now. There will be many nice young men on Partridge Island. Edward, for instance. A very clever boy."

Faustina blinked. She stifled a laugh. "Thank you, Mrs. P."

"It's my pleasure, dear. In light of our visitor, I think I should oversee the final preparations personally. I'm afraid that means tying you up." She moved to the door and called, "Alexandra, I need you."

Captivity with the Partridges or captivity with Thrush. Another set of hopeless options. But if Illya would wake up, they might, just might, have a third option. She forced her eyes to stay on Mrs. Partridge. She would not shift her gaze to the wardrobe. She would not stare at the wall behind it. She would not build up false hope.

When she entered, Edith handed her niece a bundle of cord from a side table. "Finish securing them, Alexandra, just as I taught you. Faustina, lie down next to Mr. Kuryakin."

Faustina obeyed. As she lay down, her foot struck the first aid kit. The box flew from the bed and hit the floor, scattering its contents. With Edith and Alexandra distracted, Faustina plucked another bead from her collar and thrust it between Illya's lips. Two doses of Capsule R was a risk. But if there was to be any chance of escape, Illya needed to wake up immediately.

"I'm so sorry," she said as the other ladies looked back to her. "More mess. Would you like me to clean it up?"

"No, thank you, dear. I will take care of it." She nodded to her niece. Alexandra completed her task efficiently. Soon her wrists and ankles were bound with strong cord, just as Illya's were.

Edith checked their bonds and smiled. "Very nice work. Faustina should be tied to the bedpost as well, I think." She patted Illya's cheek smartly. He did not react. "It will not be necessary for Mr. Kuryakin."

Faustina's arms were fixed to the headboard.

"You're not double-jointed, are you, dear?" Edith asked.

"Unfortunately not."

"Good. And Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I couldn't say."

"Pity. I don't think we need worry, however. This is a knot of my own devising, from which I myself could not get out. And I'm an expert escape artist, you know."

"Mrs. Partridge, at this point, you could tell me you were the Grand Duchess Anastasia, and I would believe you whole-heartedly."

"Thank you, dear. I have always tried to be a person of the utmost reliability." She tugged once more on the cords and nodded in satisfaction. "I will shut the door behind us. You are far enough from the gas, I think, to avoid any ill effects. And if I am wrong, there is plenty of room in the laundry bin."

Aunt and niece departed. The door closed. Faustina and Illya were alone.

She twisted towards him as far as her bonds would allow. "Illya," she hissed urgently. He made no response. She spoke his name again, louder and more frantically, desperate for a reaction. The flicker of an eyelid, the twitch of a cheek muscle. Nothing. He lay still and silent, like a marble statue atop a sarcophagus. Beautiful. Unreachable.

Anger and frustration built up inside her until she wanted to scream. The neighboring suite would not hear, but Edith would. She did not wish to be gagged as well as trussed. She muttered every exotic oath she knew, hoping to alleviate the emotional pressure. The exhaustive catalogue was not enough. Hot tears stung her eyes. Self-centered tears that flowed so readily for her own troubles and so grudgingly for anyone else's. She was ashamed of them. She writhed and bucked until the whole bed vibrated and the cords bit into her skin. A good, old-fashioned tantrum, just as she had done as a child. She was ashamed of it too. Finally, she lay with her eyes shut, as still and silent as Illya, tears running into her curls.

The mattress lurched. Fingers like hardened steel gripped her throat. She opened her eyes to find Illya's face, cold and deadly, just inches from hers. He spoke in Russian, his hoarse whisper heightening the menace of his furious words. "Give me one good reason not to kill you."


	8. Chapter 8

Eyelids too heavy to open. Limbs immovable. Sedated and strapped to the bed, Illya concluded. Dr. Ligouri was not taking any chances with him. No flying jello or midnight escapes this time.

Nurses chattered, their words only noise. Unseen hands tended to him. A sponge bath? In his narcotized state, he could sense only a gentle rocking, like the sway of a boat. Damn Ligouri!

The pain in his chest was becoming intolerable. Had he been shot? He could not remember. His thinking was muddled, his memories clouded. Sometimes all that kept a man from the void was a mental lifeline, a thought to which he held fast. He cast out through the sedatives for one, certain it would not be found within the medical ward.

His own breathing was a thing separate from himself, like the lapping of waves against the shore. He waited for the cloying odor of iodoform. Instead it was violets and bergamot. With the scents came emotion, startling in its nature and strength. Words came too, carried from distant days at Cambridge.

_Chlora, come view my soul, and tell  
__Whether I have contrived it well._

They had telephoned her. His condition must be critical. Perhaps the bullet was too close to his heart. His hand was clasped. He concentrated his will on squeezing back. She must tell them to operate. He did not care about the risk. Ligouri had to restore him to duty. To Napoleon. To her.

_Now all its several lodgings lie  
__Composed into one gallery;_

Medical was his universe, and she was its center. She cradled his hand against her breast, distress telegraphed by the beat of her heart. That he would be its cause was both triumph and tragedy. He would see her happy again. He would restore her smile.

_And the great arras-hangings, made  
__Of various faces, by are laid;_

How had he wooed and won her? Those recollections were hidden still. Even her face was lost in the fog of pharmaceuticals. He could conjure only her smile.

_That, for all furniture, you'll find  
__Only your picture in my mind._

Her many smiles. The mischievous. The flirtatious. The wry curve of her lips. The furious display of teeth. The broad grin of the Cheshire Cat that lingered in his thoughts even after she was gone.

_These pictures and a thousand more  
__Of thee my gallery do store_

His mouth felt a touch. A kiss? May she do so again. He could imagine no better awakening than her lips against his own.

_In all the forms thou canst invent  
__Either to please me, or torment._

His heartbeat quickened. Pleasure swelled to happiness. Happiness to euphoria. Warmth and energy suffused his body. Point him towards Thrush Central. He would take them out single-handedly.

His heart beat faster. Too fast. A hand slapped his cheek. Had she spotted the ominous change in the waveform or had the cardioscope sounded its alarm? As it was the nightshift, Ligouri was probably encamped beside his espresso machine. She must drag him over by the ear, if the nurses could not rouse him quickly enough.

The blood pounded in his skull. His name repeated frantically. The bed shook. They were working on him. She had to leave, taking her smiles with her. His heart raced on. The cardioscope would sound like a detonator, beeping with increasing frequency until it reached its solid, fatal tone. When UNCLE closed his file, he hoped they classified it H1.

The pounding ceased. The bed stilled. The medical ward receded, like a port of departure sinking below the horizon. He would not waste even this minute in remorse. Hero, Class 1. She would be proud. Napoleon would be jealous. Satisfactory thoughts to end with.

~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~

Hands and feet bound. Vision blurred. Head pounding with the hangover particular to narco-toxins. Illya squinted up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes in resignation. At least he was lying on a soft mattress and not hanging by his wrists.

A strange sensation niggled at him, one that did not usually accompany a captive awakening. Not the rapid heartbeat nor the heavy breathing, those were probably side effects of the gas. It was the feeling of buoyancy, as if he were being carried along by a pleasant thought. He rode the strange elation back through the darkness of unconsciousness to his last waking memories. The sofa. The gas. Not those. The girl. Warmth coursed though him. _Chyort_. Vague remembrances came into focus. Miss Pemberley, nestled in Marsden's embrace, her elusory eyes fixed on him in triumph as he succumbed to the vapor.

His happiness exploded, shards piercing his chest like daggers as he plunged from sublime heights back to hard, unforgiving earth. Strothers was correct. Perfidious Thrush double-crosser. All the while, two-timing hi— them.

He inhaled, and his heart lurched. Violets and bergamot. Floral-scented pheromones bottled exclusively by La Maison d'Angélique. Better spying through chemistry. Rather than relief, the realization brought another stab of betrayal. His warmth became a searing heat. _Suka!_ If he ever got his hands on her…

He was not alone. He slanted his gaze between cracked lids. A figure lay in the shadows beside him. Purring in exultation, no doubt, and anticipating the chance to toy with him further. The thought chilled his white-hot rage into something cold and lethal. He would never be in the thralls of a Thrush _koshka_. He would see her dead first.

Illya thrust his body up and over, fury supplementing whatever energy he still lacked. The bonds bit into his wrists as his hands encircled her throat. His fingers tightened. He did not recognize his own voice as it rasped, "Give me one good reason not to kill you."


	9. Chapter 9

Miss Pemberley struggled vainly beneath him. So nonsense and wine and bottled wiles were no match for a bound, half-drugged assailant. Contempt exhilarated him. His fingers tightened. The sputtering croaks that escaped his grasp were the most honest sounds to yet pass her lips. Her smile was extinguished, as was the beguiling sparkle in her eyes. She would know the inexorable retreat of consciousness under the triumphant gaze of an adversary. She would know what he had known one time too many.

Illya thrust back his head to better see her defeat. Her wide eyes held fast to his, as determinedly as he gripped her throat. Twin pools, translucent, bottomless, reflecting the dim light of the room. He resisted their pull with a shake of his head. Damn that gas. Still their gaze did not break. Damn that perfume. He saw fear and desperate entreaty and something else. Something unexpected. He stared into their depths, trying to name it. Ruefulness, almost self-deprecation. It had shone there before, unrecognized. His own words from the pub returned. How is it that no one has yet strangled you?

Several things broke into his awareness at the same instant; the line of Miss Pemberley's arms stretching above her head, the dark trails of makeup extending toward her hairline, the slick wetness beneath his fingertips. He felt as if another drink had been flung into his face, a scalding hot one. His fury subsided. His grip slackened. As lethargy overtook his limbs, he collapsed beside her.

Miss Pemberley drew a shuddering breath and erupted into a fit of coughing. Fresh tears welled at the corners of her eyes. Illya watched them fall, his head pounding, half convinced he was waking from a dream. Had he actually believed her to be a Thrush agent? Had he truly almost throttled her? His mind recoiled.

Miss Pemberley shifted her nearest arm, bound with the other to the headboard, and wiped the side of her face. "God, I hate crying at work," she said in a hoarse whisper.

No furious denunciations? No well-deserved epithets? He stared at her in perplexity. Would she so easily overlook the unpardonable? He doubted it. Apologies remained in order. His tongue felt thick, his throat tight. He cleared it. Her tear-stained face turned toward his.

Illya had a revelation. "Your eyes are grey."

Her brows quirked at his evident disenchantment. "Grey as dishwater," she confirmed. The sparkle rekindled in those eyes, a mocking amusement directed as much at herself as at him. He would have preferred a tongue-lashing. It was the fitting response to his actions. Why could she not do this properly?

Her lips curved into a ghost of her wry smile. "I gave you two Capsule Rs."

"Two?" he squawked. At her shush, he said more quietly, "Two Capsules R?" His sluggish brain recalled the probable side-effects. Hostility. Check. With that amount of stimulant coursing through his system, it was the least of his worries. "You are out to get me."

"Illya, if I'd been out to get you, you'd be the one tied to the bedpost."

As his name passed her lips for the first time, his heart skipped. Probably a cardiac episode. Adopting what he hoped were dampening tones, he said, "This is hardly the time for levity…Faustina."

He immediately regretted speaking her name. The veil of formality between them was lifted. Without it, he felt awkward and exposed. His voice grew frostier. "One of us could have died."

"Both of us might, if we don't get out of here."

Despite her flippancy, he saw she was in earnest. He reexamined the moments before the darkness overtook him. The sudden searing pain at his chest. The cloud of toxin fouling the air. He pressed back further. Marsden's telephone message. The girl in the Club. He frowned. "Thrush got to Donald."

The door knob rattled. As he shut his eyes and resumed his waking position, Faustina whispered, "Wrong bird."

His closed lids glowed red as bright light streaked across the room. A singsong voice breathed, "How are you, dear? Resting comfortably?"

Edith Partridge. Such pleasant, refined speech should call to mind chintz-covered armchairs and china teacups, not manacles and iron maidens.

Faustina answered, "Yes, Mrs. P."

"Splendid. And Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Still asleep on the job."

The wound on his chest throbbed. He fought to keep his brow from furrowing. If Faustina went five minutes without saying something provocative, he would forswear turtlenecks.

"You are quite certain he hasn't stirred?" Edith twittered.

"Quite. Perhaps he has a poor constitution. He might never wake up."

Five seconds. His wardrobe was safe.

"Don't be morbid, dear. We shall hold out hope that the young man is more robust than it appears. However, it does prove the effectiveness of the gas. I don't anticipate any trouble recovering Emory." The room darkened as the door was pulled closed. "I hope those Thrush men don't dawdle. I'm a stickler for punctuality, you know."

At the click of the latch, Illya opened his eyes. "Mad as a March hare," he declared, the designation widely applicable.

Faustina chuckled. "She has a certain charm, though, for grade-A loon."

He once again saw the hot poker closing in and felt the heat on his cheek. He swallowed. "You were too charmed to overpower her, I gather."

She twisted to face him, grey eyes dark and churning. "Sadistic old ladies with a penchant for sharp objects are a weakness of mine. Wasn't that in my profile?"

"Your profile was inadequate," he replied dryly, turning his head. Her seas were beginning to build. Never again would he disparage competence, a serene and predictable quality. A barometer should come standard issue when working with her. "I shall recommend certain addenda when this is over."

She bared her teeth, white breakers against the shore. "If that includes striking a senior agent, then I'll be sure to deserve it. That earlier effort wasn't my best."

He rolled onto his shoulder with a grunt. "If our current predicament is an example of your best effort, I do not foresee your following Miss Dancer anytime soon."

The headboard rattled as she strained forward, her confined hands whirling along to a string of exotic speculations about his antecedents. When she paused for breath, he said, "Clearly you are versed in more languages than were listed. Worthy of noting, perhaps, but not of a promotion." To continue arguing was madness, but he could not resist. Most everyone was mad in this Affair.

"Clearly you have no idea what Harry considers worthy," she stormed. "Besides, he's putty in my hands, remember?"

He did not want to imagine her hands anywhere near Beldon. "I don't believe that."

She searched his face. "Well, as your small mind stretches that far, maybe it can also encompass the idea of four to one. Unless the golden boys of Section II laugh at such odds."

"Of course, we do. Vainglory is one of the chief requirements. You at least qualify in that regard."

She returned a crack of mirthless laughter, then spat, "Not so vainglorious that I longed to die at the end of your Special."

He blinked, his mind suddenly consumed by 17th century metaphysical poets and their bawdier puns. He dragged his errant thoughts to the present and found he had not been alone on his mental excursion. Her tempest had passed as quickly as it had arisen. A playful smile invited him to return one of his own. He disdained such familiarity. "Very funny," he acknowledged stiffly, his expression pained.

Her grin broadened, and a chuckle rumbled in her throat like receding thunder. On further consideration, he found no advantage in appearing priggish. His lips curved slightly, and his gaze softened.

"So, _angelochek moi_, you have a sense of humor after all." Something swam in the depths of her eyes, fierce and hungry. Then it flitted away, and all was sun-dappled tranquility as she asked, "How do you feel?"

"Like I narrowly avoided a myocardial infarction."

He rolled his eyes at her doctorly nod. Contrition had also disappeared over the horizon.

"Constitution of Rasputin," she said decidedly.

"No, of a Kuryakin. Luckily for you, we have an amazing aptitude for recovery."

The disconcerting shadow darted through her eyes once more. "Yes, that would be very lucky for me."

A tidal wave of carnal thoughts crashed over him. "I've never told this to another woman," he said, rolling to his back, fingers itching to return to her throat, "but I think I may hate you."

"Flatterer," she replied, and he sensed her Cheshire Cat grin.

Before he could formulate a suitably quelling response, the telephone rang. His bedmate's response was immediate and palpable. She tensed, her impudent humor giving way to a wary alertness. His own senses quickened in expectancy.

"That's the signal," she said, when the ringing ceased. "Thrush is here, and they've brought Emory Partridge."


	10. Chapter 10

The Partridges and Thrush, a highly volatile combination. "A reunion I would prefer not to attend," Illya said. He should be in the process of alerting London HQ, not in bed indulging in a thrust and parry with a female agent, a fact Napoleon would be quick to point out when he reviewed the eventual report. His partner would deliberately misconstrue the evening's events, smug grin in place. Every frown, every rolled eye, every exasperated sigh he had aimed at Napoleon would come back to haunt him.

Illya flipped over and pushed himself onto his knees. His head swam. The room lurched. A heartbeat thumped rapidly in his ear. It was not his own.

"Easy does it, _tigronok_."

"Pardon me," he said, lifting his head from Faustina's chest.

He dragged his uncooperative body to the headboard, the tight velvet pants, ones of her choosing, conspiring against him. Each pull of his muscles tugged at the bandage and the raw skin underneath. No one watching his ungainly progress would believe him a cat burglar of some repute. The one watching at the moment jerked her arms impatiently. "Stop that," he growled. "You will tighten them further."

The brass spindle anchoring her bonds was just beyond his grasp. He stretched over her, and her face disappeared beneath his chest. He did not bother to beg her pardon again.

"There's a button in my eye."

"Then I advise you not to open it." The heavily-starched shirt rasped against his chest as she shifted her face. He was not going to ask who had accomplished his change in wardrobe. What the ear did not hear, the heart could not grieve.

The spindle held fast to the wooden rails. He worked at the knot, the process of its unraveling clear in his mind. His beringed fingers felt clumsy and slow to respond. Beneath him, Faustina seethed with restlessness, likely casting aspersions on him continent by continent. "Stop thinking so loudly." At last, he disentangled the final twist of cord. Her shoulders sagged, and her groan of relief resonated against his sternum.

Illya rolled to the side and lay half-propped against the headboard. Faustina, presenting her bound wrists to him, snapped, "No wonder Partridge keeps slipping through your fingers."

Feeling the tremor in her hands, the frosty retort melted off his lips unspoken. Brazen remained an apt term but not in the way he would have applied it earlier. Anxiety fueled her flashing eyes and scalding tongue. She had a right to be concerned. They both did.

"Mr. Waverly will not be amused if it happens again," he admitted, applying himself to the more elaborate knot. "So Edith Partridge was behind this all along. Marsden would get her Latner, and Latner would get her Emory. Only now she offers me instead."

Her arms stiffened. "There is no conceit in my being of more interest to Thrush," he added quickly. "They are unlikely to have heard of you."

"True," she conceded. "The name Faustina Pemberley won't ring any bells."

A flick of his gaze caught her mouth flexed into its wry curve. "Although, in certain circles, it is likely to raise alarm," he said.

"Or raise hackles."

The knot seemed to require three hands to undo. He took a loose end of cord between his teeth and tugged, his lips brushing her palm. "Or raise...never mind."

"Raise Cain?"

Her face was a study of innocence, an expression, he decided, she applied as easily as she did a beauty mask. "Never. Mind."

"Spoilsport."

The knot came undone. As he pulled the cords from her wrists, she said, "Edith declared that knot inescapable."

"Luckily for you, I am highly dexterous." His quirked brows dared her to respond.

"So is Edith." She sat up, a spark of delight in her dishwater eyes, and began to work on his bonds. "She's going to double-cross Thrush. There's an island kingdom waiting for dear Emory, and we're its newest subjects."

"_Chyort_. We need to call Headquarters. I presume my communicator is gone."

"It wasn't in your jacket."

He watched Faustina's hands pluck at his restraints. So she had been the one to undress him. Relief was swept away by the disconcerting vision of her fingers releasing each button one by one, the varnished nails grazing a path down his skin. "That is getting us nowhere."

"Then stop glowering at me, and tell me what you want me to do."

A dangerous request. "Loosen that left piece, just there. No, your left. Now use your teeth. Wait, I will do it," he said, as her mouth neared his hands. Her widened eyes met his. "You bite."

He caught the cord in his teeth and spoke around it. "Pull the loop. The rest should be obvious."

"Easy for you to say."

He exhaled in satisfaction as his bonds loosened. He shook them from his wrists and hunched over to free his ankles. "It will have to be the window then. Between these cords and the bedsheets, we might have enough."

"There's another way," she said, working to untie herself.

Illya glanced at the door. "My claims of vainglory were sarcastic. When my file closes, I want it marked Pensioner, not H1." He cast aside a sense of déjà vu with a shake of his head. "I need you."

She grasped the piece of cord he indicated. "I meant the secret door."

"Hah. It is never that simple." He undid the knot with her assistance and moved to reciprocate.

"Of course, a responsible manager would have sealed it up…"

He barely heard her. She awaited his help, unaware or unconcerned that her dress had slipped down her steepled legs. Beldon had said there was not a shy bone in her body, a practical quality for a field agent. He himself could not be accused of an overdeveloped sense of modesty, as many UNCLE Medical personnel would attest. And he was no callow youth to get a cheap thrill from the site of a woman's undergarments. So he would ignore them—the sheer blue stockings that gave way to silken skin, the black lace garters that disappeared beneath the iridescent hem—and focus on untying her.

"But let's hope in this case he cut corners," she finished, pulling off the cords.

Illya sat back and looked in her face. She was serious. "What are you talking about?"

"Shhh." She pressed a finger to his lips and pointed. Two narrow shadows broke the arc of light that streamed under the door. Someone stood on the other side.

Faustina dropped her hand and gestured to the wall beside the door. Understanding her meaning, Illya slid from the bed. He picked up the chair and carefully wedged it under the door handle.

He turned back to find her tugging at the wardrobe. She waved him over. "Help me move this," she breathed.

He looked at her incredulously. "Is it not customary to go through it?"

She ignored him and continued to pull the heavy cabinet away from the wall. It tipped toward her. Illya quickly righted it. He pantomimed some directions, and they shifted one side a few feet so the wardrobe spanned the room's corner.

They shimmied along the wall into the space behind. There was the door, just as she had said, a twin to the suite's entrance. For once it was going to be that easy. He had met a girl, an infuriating, exhilarating girl, and the girl had a door. But it was never that easy.

He could think of only a few purposes for a practically soundproof room with a clandestine entrance. "Which MP will be resigning this time?" he said icily.

"None." She grasped the handle and leaned back, letting her weight pull the door more tightly into the frame. With her other hand, she turned the deadbolt.

"Oh, I see. There was no impropriety in your relationship."

She looked at him over her shoulder with self-mocking amusement. "True, in this case, though it couldn't be said of all of them."

She pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness. Light flickered on. Her hand reappeared, a crooked finger beckoning him to follow.

It was all too convenient. Was she trustworthy? If she were working with Thrush or the Partridges, effecting this escape would be counter-productive…unless she were playing an even deeper game.

Emory Partridge's baritone, muffled but recognizable, reached Illya's ears. Pocketing his doubts, he crossed the threshold and shut the door behind them.


	11. Chapter 11

Illya stood at the top of a stairwell, narrow and utilitarian. Hoping to jam the door, he pulled on the aluminum handrail, but it remained firmly anchored to the wall.

"Come on," Faustina urged from several steps below him.

With a frown of regret, he abandoned the door and hurried after her. Their racing feet beat a steady tattoo down the stairs. "Where does this lead?"

"The Underground."

"So you have used that door before."

"Of course. How else would I know it was there?"

"Another handy little tidbit you picked up somewhere?"

She grinned up at him as she rounded a landing. "No, that's you."

He saw no other doors as they descended, swiftly putting two, three, four stories between themselves and their captors. His heart began to pound at the exertion. He estimated they had reached the ground floor when the stairwell opened onto a small passage. Faustina flipped a switch, and post-war fixtures shed a cold, anachronistic light on their surroundings. The ghost of an archway, sealed up with bricks, lay to the right. The facing wall held a disused ticket window trimmed with dark moulding. On the left another staircase led further down, its polished wood and brass fittings harkening back to a more graceful era.

Illya's heart was a tympani in his head. He bent over, his hands on his thighs, breathing heavily.

"Winded already?" Faustina asked, fondling the ear of the carved lion that topped the newel post. "If you're too tired to run, you could slide down the bannister."

He glared at her in response, then closed his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness. Footsteps approached him. He lifted his face to look at her. Twin streaks of kohl, painted by her tears, stretched toward her hair. Large grey eyes, like the Nile by moonlight, searched his with disquieting intensity. He had never felt such sympathy for Caesar and Mark Antony.

"Should I go on without you?" she demanded.

He should tell her to do so, that he would catch up, but the words did not come. "Abandoning me already? It is your fault I am in this state."

She blanched, and her eyes became as blank and unreadable as inlays of obsidian. He did not like them that way. "I will be fine shortly," he assured her.

Faustina gave a small nod, then wrapped an arm around his back, pulling his own across her shoulders. She took his weight so that the support felt more like an embrace. It seemed a well-practiced maneuver. He wondered on whom she had perfected it.

"Do you hear anyone following us?" he asked.

As she twisted her head to listen, he saw a beauty mark nestled in the hollow below her ear. Its enticement was undermined by the chain of lurid bruises encircling her neck, one for each of his fingers. His stomach roiled.

"I don't hear anything," she answered, turning back. Her brows lifted at his formidable expression.

"Your neck looks terrible."

"Worse than after a hot date?"

His frown deepened. These were no love-bites. "Must you be flippant? I am attempting to apologize."

A spark of amusement restored life to her eyes. "Is that what you're doing? Well, I was attempting to make you feel better."

"I do not wish to feel better. I could have killed you."

"And I could have killed you. I'd love to feel better about that." She exhaled. "I shouldn't have given you that second capsule. It was too dangerous."

"You assessed the situation and took a calculated risk. That is what agents do. They do not usually throttle their colleagues," he said, tipping his head closer to her ear, "however tempted they may be." He felt the thrum of her quiet laughter down to his toes.

"I guess that makes us even…for now. We should keep going."

Her arm fell away from his back. He staggered. "I may need that bannister after all," he lied.

As she clasped him more firmly, he settled his arm around her waist. They fell into step and made their way down the second staircase, which swept them through the sub-basements in bygone elegance. At its base lay a long corridor. The steady cadence of their footfalls echoed sharply off the colorful mosaic along the floor and the larger tiles of deep blue that clad the lower half of the walls.

"This is Hillary Brown's work," Illya announced.

"Who?"

"Hillary Brown, the architect hired by Phillip Llewelyn Yancy after he acquired the Eastern Line. His tile work is very distinctive. I've never seen it this well preserved."

Faustina's response was a velvety chuckle.

"Why is that funny?"

"Do you recall Deirdre Harris? You took her to dinner back when you were posted here."

"I do." He vaguely remembered the platinum blonde from Translation, a more brilliant linguist than conversationalist.

"I heard her tell once that she had a lovely evening with you. Your blue eyes set her heart pounding, and your voice gave her electric thrills. But most of the night she had no idea what the hell you were talking about."

His lips thinned, and he said stiffly, "I'll keep my observations to myself then."

"Share all you like. I enjoy an electric thrill too," she purred, then yelped as his fingers dug into her side.

At the end of the corridor, an ornately tiled frame surrounded a metal security door. Illya reluctantly dropped his arm from Faustina's waist and leaned against the wall as she tried the handle.

"Locked," she declared. She reached behind her collar and yanked on one of the dangling beads. It broke away, a long filament trailing behind it.

He noted the loose threads along the front that marked the depleted stores of Capsule R. "I am glad you kept them straight."

"One side makes you taller, the other side makes you shorter." She jammed the bead into the keyhole. "The trick is remembering which is which."

She joined him against the wall. Illya took the filament she held and attached it to his watch. Turning his back to the blast, he depressed the stem. A shower of sparks erupted from the lock.

Illya rolled the sleeve of his borrowed shirt down over his hand, then inched the door open and peered through the crack. He had passed through the station yesterday on his way to meet Marsden, one of a bustling crowd. Now it was dim and silent.

"All clear," he said, entering the deserted concourse. Faustina pushed the door shut behind them. The portal, a small sign marking it Private, became another easily disregarded feature in the wall.

They set out for the escalators. A cache of equipment piled on the floor reminded him that the station was not completely vacant. At any moment they might encounter one of the small army of workers who maintained the system each night.

He brushed his hands through his hair and began to fix his sleeve. "If we see anyone, I will do the talking."

"Really? And just what story will you tell?" Her flashing eyes traveled past his open collar down to his untucked shirttails and back over the chest that rose and fell markedly.

He sighed. His dishevelment along with her tousled hair and colorful neck told their own story. "That we were on a 'hot date' and could no longer contain our ardor."

Faustina grinned and quickened her pace. "If they demand to know where, I know the perfect spot."

"Ah, another tidbit. You should give tours."

Illya followed the mesmerizing sway of her iridescent dress as she jogged ahead of him. He had observed many such couples during his tenure in England. Clothes a little worse for dance, heads a little worse for drink, they rushed to catch the last train, lest a trip on the night bus unduly delay the satisfactions of a shared bed. Amid his studies at Cambridge and his duties for UNCLE, he had yet to join their ranks. Perhaps before leaving these shores again he would.

They paused at the base of the escalators, and he frowned up at the steep flight of motionless treads. "Mt. Whitney was less daunting," he said.

"Come on, _golùbchik_, we'll make it." She took his hand and pulled him up the steps. By the time they reached the top and her fingers slipped from his, he had ceased to resist the wish that they climbed toward her flat rather than a telephone and a long night's work.

In defiance of the No Exit signs, they passed through the barriers into the ticket hall. An alcove held a bank of recently updated telephones. Illya walked the line of them, pressing button B on each, but no unclaimed coins were refunded.

"Forgot your wallet?" Faustina asked.

Illya patted the brown velvet pants which clung to his hips. "Well, it would hardly have fit in these. What about you? No spare change in that sartorial arsenal?"

"Not a brass farthing." She reached for the telephone. "I'll reverse the charges."

He took the handset, his fingers brushing across hers. "I know a faster way," he said, eyes gleaming. At the sound of the dial tone, he tapped out the number on the receiver rest.

He was showing off. He might kick himself for it later, but for now he would bask in the delight that radiated from her as she watched him mimic the clicks.

As the number rang, he tilted the handset so they both could hear. "Where did you learn that handy tidbit?" she asked.

"Cambridge. I hadn't a brass farthing then either."

A drowsy receptionist picked up the line. "Unified Northern Casualty and Liability Exchange."

"Priority 1 call, Class D," he said. "Please scramble."

The line crackled as she transferred the call. Amorous murmuring came over the channel. "Harry," a woman's voice moaned.

Illya frowned and searched Faustina's face. Did she care that they had interrupted Beldon's love-making? Had she ever been its recipient?

As Faustina's mouth flexed into its wry curve, Illya again knew the sensation that came when a lock turned and a door eased in. "No," she whispered in answer to the unspoken questions.

"_Un moment, ma chérie_," Beldon growled, followed by breathless giggling.

With a self-mocking glint, the mysteries of which he pledged to explore, Faustina's eyes moved to the fingers clasping the handset and the tiger's eye that took the place of his father's gold band. She was peering around the door, and his answer would determine whether it shut again.

"No," he whispered.

Desire stirred in the depths of her eyes, fierce and hungry. His breathing quickened, and his heart resumed its pounding.

"UNCLE Northeast here," Beldon said.

Illya did not answer. He wet his lips, and a tremor coursed through her. He turned the handset against his shoulder as she leaned forward.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approach the barrier. He groaned in primal frustration and raised his free hand, holding her off.

"Don't you touch her," Donald Marsden shouted angrily.

Faustina spun around. Marsden stalked toward them, something metallic in his grip.

"Hello? Who's on this channel?" Beldon barked against Illya's shoulder.

Illya turned the handset to his face. "I will have to call you back," he said and hung up.


	12. Chapter 12

Faustina stood between him and his own pistol, her palpable frustration tempered by a familiar amusement. This time Illya was sure of its cause. With flashing eyes she had stormed, 'Not so vainglorious that I longed to die at the end of your Special.' An imperfect metaphor but worthy of exploration. A sleep dart would postpone what he hoped would be an impassioned literary debate.

With a quick squeeze of her arm, Illya stepped away from the telephone and to her side.

"Get your hands off her."

She had been correct. Marsden delivered the command as if he had waited his whole life to say it. His snob-nosed face was screwed into a grimace of authority, and the brown eyes attempted to pierce him.

Illya found Victor's derision easy to feign. "If we're to meet on a field of honor, Donny, it's customary that I have the choice of weapon."

"You mean honor among thieves?" Marsden scoffed. "That's right. We know you're one of those UNCLE thugs."

"I have been many things," Illya replied, shedding the Asquith persona, "but never a thug. Edith Partridge is hardly an impartial judge of our organization."

Marsden turned a wounded, reproachful gaze on Faustina. "Frannie, what are you doing with him?"

"That's a fine question coming from you, Donald Marsden," she snapped, her voice brittle, the elusory accent now unmistakably English. She was Fancy once more, an Innocent lost in a mad, unfamiliar world, hiding her fear and confusion behind a mask of affront.

Marsden frowned. "Whatever he said, it's a bunch of lies."

So he was unaware that his intended was also a thug from UNCLE. Poor Donny, duped on all fronts. Illya said lightly, "I am not the one pointing a gun at her."

Marsden jabbed the pistol in his direction. "This is for you, not her."

Two years of stateside service showed in his confident grip, a white K visible beneath his curled fingers. The Partridges were eluding justice once more, and the banker was the key to their capture. Better that Marsden should put down the gun and help them voluntarily than be forcibly disarmed. The consequences would be less onerous. So would the paperwork.

"Come here, Frannie," Marsden urged firmly, extending his free hand.

"Why should she trust you more than me?" Illya asked. "Neither one of us has been forthright."

Faustina tossed her head, and with a clatter of pins, her tousled curls tumbled down her neck. "And I'm unimpressed with the company you keep."

Marsden winced. "Today wasn't the best day for you two to meet."

"_Sans dec_. Your 'fairy godmother' is not at all a nice woman."

"She's really a sweet old girl. You've gotta give her a chance."

"A chance to what? Tie me up once more?"

Faustina displayed her wrists, still encircled with angry red grooves. Marsden's mouth worked wordlessly, conflict evident on his face. She drove Marsden toward a choice, Edith or herself. She had won him from Louise Latner. Could she also win him away from Edith Partridge?

Marsden plowed a hand through his sandy hair, leaving furrows in the thick mass. "It must've been for your own good. These are ruthless people she's dealing with," he said, waving his hand toward Illya, "and you might have gotten caught in the middle of it."

Illya considered the gold sash angling down the banker's chest. The partridge within its seal was imbued with a degree of majesty unimagined by the dun-colored game bird. "Whatever Edith Partridge promised you, it will not last. She is wanted in several countries. Eventually we will catch up with her."

Marsden brandished a finger triumphantly. "See, I told you they're ruthless. They've already got her husband. Now they want her too."

They had not been the first to harness Marsden's protective instincts. Edith Partridge could make an excellent show of helplessness….until the shotgun came out. "Her husband was not in UNCLE's custody. He was in the hands of Thrush."

"You can't fool me with that double-talk. I'm a Wharton graduate. You think I don't know how subsidiaries work?"

Illya sighed. "You are wrong. UNCLE exists to enforce law. Thrush is a band of renegades who think the law applies only to lesser mortals. An attitude they share with the Partridges."

"More lies." He swung pleading eyes to Faustina. "Frannie, please. I promised I'd take care of you. That hasn't changed."

"You attacked me." Resentment, the kind Illya had expected to face earlier, curdled her voice.

"It was just something to make you sleep. You were gonna call the police. It would've ruined everything."

She glared at Marsden sourly, lips pursed, hands planted on her hips. Illya preferred her incandescent fury or her mocking amusement. This bitter vexation did not suit her.

"Does that not tell you something?" Illya interjected. "An honorable person's plans are unlikely to be ruined by police involvement."

"Don't listen to him. Remember how he tricked you. For all we know, the real Victor is dead."

"Victor Asquith is as alive as he ever was," Illya replied dryly.

"If they didn't bump him off, then he's still out there," Marsden said, slanting an accusatory glance at him, "lusting after you."

Faustina hugged her chest and distanced herself by a single step. "Spending my inheritance on his drugs."

"While your home falls down around your ears." Marsden watched with quadrupedal thirst as her fingers travelled up and down her bare arms. He swallowed. "But it doesn't have to be like that. You can still marry me. I want to marry you, Frannie, more than anything."

A shade of her former adoration returned as she said, "And I wanted the sweet American banker, not a…Western outlaw."

His face fell. "You told me I was a brave knight."

"You were." Her outstretched hand invited a kiss of homage from her champion.

Marsden's bovine eyes worshipped her. Valiant Sir Donald. Illya felt his lip begin to curl and quickly schooled his features. Faustina's dangerous talent was on full display. Every word, every gesture, was an enticement to Marsden's unquestionable vanity and his so-called valor.

Faustina withdrew her hand. "That is, I thought you were. I don't understand any of this."

"I can explain everything, I promise."

"I want to believe you, Donald, but I can't think with a gun pointed at me. Please, put it down."

The force of her will rolled out in waves. He could feel Marsden's desires bend and sway, like iron filings above a magnet. Faustina was not a great beauty. If she had been, the world would be at her feet.

"I can't," Marsden groaned. "Not as long as he's here."

"It wasn't just about Victor. I wanted you. Honest. Respectable. So delightfully square. I never thought I'd fall for a pair of striped trousers."

The banker's gaze dropped in confusion to his dark blue worsted. Illya rolled his eyes. Her confession was made with a show of shy reluctance. She could be coy after all.

"I allowed myself to imagine such lovely things," she said. "A flat in Town. Breakfasting together. Sending you off with the Financial Times and a kiss. My own City gent."

Marsden's cheeks flushed. Illya's lips thinned. Her picture was uncomfortably similar to his own intentions for the morning of his departure. With his tendency to be methodical and circumspect, his nightlife was more often spent pursuing Thrush than a skirt. If one of his infrequent dates did progress to the bedroom, he was unlikely to stay until breakfast. Rarer still was an overnight guest at his own apartment. Yet he had contemplated giving Faustina an open invitation if she ever found herself in New York. That was a problem. He had allowed himself to become too open, his desires too personal.

Faustina's gaze held Marsden's, as her words, low and mellifluous, continued to cast their spell. "We'll weekend in the country. I know you'll soon have the Hall put right. What tremendous house parties we'll have."

The Special lowered a few degrees. Illya sensed a thrill course through her. She was enjoying this.

"Together we'll present the Asquith Cup on Speech Day. And open the Village Fete."

Marsden's grip on the pistol relaxed. Her excitement mounted. "You're certain to be made a JP. How proud I'll be on that day."

"Will you, Frannie?" Marsden asked.

Though she remained fixed on the banker, her exhilaration reached out, inviting Illya to be in on the kill. "Yes, Donald. Put away the gun, and take me home. I'll show you how proud I'll be."

Illya watched the pistol drop to Marsden's side. Donald thought he had won fair maiden and the kingdom. There was neither. There was only a dragon with opalescent eyes, fierce and hungry.


	13. Chapter 13

"Hey, you. Freeze!"

Three heads swung toward the adjacent passage. A Thrush henchman, lowly in rank and lengthy in weapon, stood beneath the Way Out lightbox, his rifle barrel thrust between the rails of the collapsible gate. Illya's grunt of aggravation was overmatched by Faustina's menacing growl. Eyes of molten pewter sought to incinerate the jumpsuited intruder.

The Thrushie pulled a radio from his belt and said, "Kuryakin's in the station. There's no sign of the Partridges."

"Run, Frannie," Marsden shouted. He raised the Special and squeezed the trigger. The Thrush henchman dropped his radio and returned fire.

Illya followed Faustina as she sprinted to the shelter of a station assistant's kiosk. The gunfire continued. A window shattered, raining glass down on them. Keeping low, they scrambled through the barrier and down the escalators.

With one hand on the rail and the other gesticulating furiously, Faustina snarled a collection of Italian invectives, consigning the Thrushie to torments that would have made Dante shudder. "I had the bastard." Her fingers curled like talons around some envisioned piece of anatomy. Whether it was Marsden's or the henchman's he did not know. It had very nearly been his own.

Faustina stumbled at the base of the treads, turning to face him as she regained her footing. "He was mine," she said, the declaration punctuated by a bellow of wrath. "This Affair has been one cock-up after another."

He almost stopped. He was short of breath and so very tired. Instead he passed by wordlessly. Acknowledging the double entendre might transmute some of her searing rage into radiant delight. He could do it. He wanted to do it. But he needed to think with his head, not some other piece of his anatomy. Direct exposure to any of her humors came at a cost. He had burns enough already.

The sound of sporadic gunfire diminished with every step. They ran onward, rounding a bend in the concourse, then skidded to a halt. A figure in coveralls hunched over an opening in the floor, pulling a second, heavier man out of the shaft.

"Oi, you two can't be here," the rotund man exclaimed as he struggled to his feet.

"Oh dear, have we missed the last train?" Faustina simpered at the night cleaner, who began to smack dirt from his coveralls. "We were…talking and lost track of time."

The taller workman jabbed an elbow into his partner's paunch. "The missus and I used to 'talk' like that, once upon a time."

Faustina giggled coquettishly and clung to Illya's arm. "I can't help that he talks with his hands, can I?"

Illya shrugged her off with a jerk. "Is this all just a game to you?"

"Sweetheart, whatever do you mean?"

He stared back at her coldly. Her doe-eyed bewilderment vanished in a blaze of heat. "I take an affair as seriously as you do."

Those scalding dishwater eyes would thaw him no longer. "As seriously as life and death?" he said, raising one brow.

The corpulent cleaner chuckled as he mopped his face with a dingy cloth. "Felt like that when we was young, didn't it, Charley?"

She flicked a curl off her shoulder. "Some affairs I do." Her discolored neck was briefly in view.

Illya willed himself cooler and cooler, until he could feel the ice crackling in his veins. "While others are merely to stay in training."

"Or to whet my appetite," Faustina replied with a smile that threatened to devour him. "A tidbit between courses."

"And another notch on your"—Illya flicked his gaze to her thighs—"garters."

Faustina lunged forward, fists ready. Charley the workman let out a whistle. With a speed surprising in one of his girth, the workman who was not Charley leapt between them. "Now, now, luv, save that for after the honeymoon."

A sound penetrated the pounding in Illya's ears. "Shush," he barked. Faustina was immediately alert. The cleaners' sputtering protests died as they saw the cold gravity of his expression.

Jogging footsteps echoed through the concourse. Faustina put a finger over each ear in turn, then pointed in the direction of the Eastern Grande's clandestine entrance.

Illya took a large brush from their self-appointed umpire and threw it around the turning. A rifle fired.

"Flippin' 'ell," Charley gasped.

Faustina pushed the workmen toward the hole. "Get down."

With practiced but hurried precision, Charley shoved his portly partner down the ventilation shaft and scrambled after him. Illya and Faustina pressed themselves against the wall.

"Have anything else we can use?" he whispered, looking at her collar.

"Pyrotechnics. But the activator was in my purse."

Illya picked up a bottle of cleaning fluid from the abandoned supplies. She nodded and began yanking at the beads.

Illya yelled, "Drop your weapon. You are surrounded." In way of reply, a bullet struck a Guinness poster on the opposing wall, piercing the heart of a startled Norman cavalryman.

Illya rolled down his cuff, and Faustina dropped a few glossy spheres into his hand. He poured solution over them. As the beads began to hiss, he hurled them around the bend. The concourse erupted with bangs and flashes like Guy Fawkes Night come early. More rifle fire followed.

They ran for the Eastern line platforms. At the end of the passage, a short set of stairs led down to a concrete island flanked by tracks on either side. The belongings of more night workers littered the benches along its length. The only sound was the dull roar of subterranean winds. The reconditioning gang had pushed deep into the tunnels.

Faustina ran ahead. Illya barked, "Where are you going?"

She pointed to a door at the other end. "There's probably a line to the substation in there."

"A perfect spot for it," he muttered, "among other things." He had emptied that cup, a libation to some Pagan deity of unbridled desire. He should quit nursing the bitter dregs.

He was partway down the platform when he heard the footsteps. There was nowhere to hide.

Faustina spun around. "Donald, you're hurt," she cried.

Marsden emerged from the passage and lurched down the steps. The gold sash was knotted around his arm, and his coat sleeve was wet and dark.

"You're safe now, Frannie. I got them. I got them all." His voice rang with exultation.

"You killed those men," she said. Illya slanted his gaze to her face as she stepped beside him. Her expression registered only shock, though he detected anger in her voice.

"I had to."

"No, you did not kill them. The pistol is loaded with darts," Illya said. "Sorry if that lessens your triumph."

Marsden looked at the weapon. "Darts?" he repeated stupidly.

"Tipped with a paralytic toxin. Non-fatal. Is that the practice of thugs?"

Marsden jerked his chin toward his wounded arm. "This was no dart."

"Thrush does not share our scruples," Illya replied.

A rumbling shriek emanated from one of the tunnels. Marsden flinched and swung the Special toward the dark hole. Faustina said, "Don't worry, it's only the wind."

The banker wiped his forehead with the back of his pistol hand. "Come on, Frannie. There's probably more of those guys on the way."

"The police are the ones on their way. Someone must have alerted them by now."

Illya hoped the same of UNCLE reinforcements. If there had been enough blood in Beldon's brain, he had thought to order a trace on their call.

Faustina pleaded, "Donald, you have to get rid of that gun quickly."

"It's too late for that."

"Planning to claim diplomatic immunity?" Illya asked.

"The U.K. hasn't officially recognized Partridge Island. Not yet, anyway." Marsden's cogitative squint relaxed as he grinned smugly. "But that also means there's no extradition agreement."

"And what's to become of me?" Faustina wailed.

"The SS Partridge sails at first light. The captain can marry us. By this time tomorrow, you'll be Mrs. Donald Marsden."

Faustina pressed a hand to her cheek. "An elopement? I can't up and leave. Where will we go? How will we live?"

Only Marsden was fooled by her histrionics; Illya was a far more discriminating audience. Her voice throbbed, not with apprehension, but with exhilaration.

"You'll live like a queen," Marsden insisted, continuing in tones of zealous ardor. "I'll shower you with designer gowns. Beautiful jewels. You'll drink nothing but champagne."

"And bathe in Mouton Rothschild," Illya added.

Marsden frowned ponderously. "You've got a filthy mouth," he said and pointed the Special at it.

"Yes, and a sordid imagination," Faustina interposed, wheeling around to shake an admonishing finger in Illya's face. "How like Victor you are in that regard. No wonder I was so easily had."

Not as easily as he was. His shrewd gaze was met with one of sardonic amusement. Marsden's prize. Beldon's gypsy. His enigma. Unwinnable. Untameable. Unsolvable. She tapped her finger on the tip of his nose. Unbelievable.

"Forget about him," Marsden called, closing the distance between them by a few steps. "Come with me."

Faustina whirled to face him. "What about Victor? And the Hall?"

"Let him worry about it. The Partridges are sovereign rulers, and I'm their Minister of Finance. Why be the wife of a weekend squire when you could be the second lady of a whole country?"

"Me?" she squeaked. "I don't know that I could fill such an exalted role."

Illya longed to applaud her theatrics. Adulation was like wine to her, tragic passion the finest vintage. Marsden would be spurned, and his hopes dashed; she was drunk on the anticipation.

"Are you kidding? You were born for it," Marsden answered, eagerly laying more tributes before her. "Best of all, the Partridges don't have any kids. Someday it will all be ours."

Illya heard a rumbling shriek in the tunnel. Had Marsden any sensitivity of soul, he would recognize it as a portend. It seemed almost indecent to spectate the death of his grab for power and its tawdry rewards.

Faustina rushed down the platform toward him. "Oh, Donald. Let's go now, before I change my mind."

"I won't let you," he said fervently. He swung his good arm wide, welcoming the infernal machine set on his undoing.

The rumbling intensified. Illya could feel it in the concrete. This time it was not the wind. It was a ballast train, battery-powered, hauling equipment to the work gangs. Illya turned his eyes to the tunnel. In a minute, it would be over.

The train's front windows glinted in the dark mouth of the tunnel. A single word rose above the screeching roar. "Bitch."

Illya would recount the next few seconds again and again in the coming days. The police demanded answers. Reports had to be filed and debriefings held, both in London and back in New York. Napoleon, having concocted the scheme in the first place, wanted to know every detail, especially the kind that did not make it into official accounts. So did the staff psychiatrist.

Then a new mission inevitably began, with new case files to read and new briefings to attend. Yet sometimes at odd and inconvenient moments of the day or, even worse, in his dreams at night, Illya found himself back in the Underground. On the Eastern line platform. The vibration rising up through his feet. The smell of dust and grease borne on a warm gust of air. The piercing screech of the ballast train braking too hard, too fast. The trace of scarlet on Faustina's recoiling fist. And the empty space at the edge of the island where Donald Marsden no longer stood.


	14. Chapter 14

"Son of a bitch."

"What was that, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya looked over the top of his glasses at his Chief. "Excuse me, sir. It is here in the report."

"Ah, yes," Waverly said. "Donald Marsden's last words."

"At least according to Miss Pemberley," Illya responded quietly.

A small crease formed between Waverly's brows. He turned to reach for his humidor. "You still think a letter of reprimand is in order, I gather."

Illya took off his glasses. Despite Waverly's dispassionate tones, he chose his words carefully before he replied, "I think Beldon has a…personal interest in Miss Pemberley that has colored his judgment."

"I see." Waverly picked up the wooden jar, then rolled back to the table. "In that case, I'm surprised there hasn't been a complaint filed about your own less-than-commendable actions."

Meeting Waverly's pointed gaze, Illya wished he still had the cover of his tinted lenses. "She would not do that," he said simply.

Waverly's eyes widened. "And what reason do you have for this remarkable certainty?"

"I apologized to her."

Neither his apology nor her acceptance had been the epitome of graciousness; but the transaction had occurred, and she had said they were even. If she desired retribution, it would come in a form more cunning than bureaucratic censure. He felt a slight curiosity about what she would devise.

Waverly loaded his pipe with Isle of Dogs No. 22, compressing the layers with his thumb. "In any event, you can request the matter be reviewed by another Section I chief, if you wish." His blue eyes twinkled briefly. "Not me, of course, as I also have what you might call a personal interest. But Gabhail Samoy is a fair man, and a wise one."

Illya exhaled sharply. "I have not yet decided if I will appeal Beldon's decision."

Waverly nodded. He gave his pipe a test draw, then cleared his throat, looking at Illya over the bowl. "How did he respond to the train business?"

Waverly's question was unorthodox, but its subject was an unorthodox man. Beldon had swept onto the platform, a larger-than-life figure in his fur-trimmed coat, his sheepskin ushanka pinned with the order of some grateful potentate, and whisked Faustina away. Illya was left behind to deal with the transport police, aided by Charley and his partner, who had emerged to tell their tale of the mayhem, as well as stories of other Incidents they had known in their years underground.

"He seemed"—Illya searched for a diplomatic word—"gratified."

Waverly harrumphed and focused on charring his tobacco. As he tamped the bowl, he said, "Lead, not darts, are the standard for Northeast agents. His policy."

Illya rubbed a black acetate earpiece between his fingers. "He also wishes to promote a woman to Section II, for the honor of the Northeast sector."

"Feeling outclassed, is he? Well, well." Waverly relit his pipe, looking gratified himself. "He's a complex man, ruthless even. I sometimes wonder what would happen if he weren't on our side."

Waverly puffed his pipe thoughtfully, the toasted marshmallow aroma drifting across the table. Illya restored his glasses and returned his attention to the report.

_Having emotionally disarmed DM as much as humanly (womanly?) possible, I moved closer to disarm him physically. I was within a few yards of reaching him when he stared at my neck. He must have noticed the bruises. I doubt he was an admirer of elaborate beadwork. He looked over my shoulder at IK, who, as noted earlier, was wearing one of DM's shirts. Judging by his reaction, DM jumped to a salacious and erroneous conclusion. For the record, IK has never given me a hickey, let alone a whole flock of them. Maybe we should strike that? Ah, hell, leave it in._

Illya glanced back at the cover sheet. FP/gs. The secretary's valiant efforts to impose an objective tone, evident on earlier pages, had been abandoned. Doubtless recognizing its futility, gs had ceased to struggle against the stream of Faustina's consciousness. He could hear that voice, its particular cadence and intriguing accent, as clearly as if she were reading aloud, her lips beside his ear. His hand clenched, crumpling the edge of the paper.

_DM's demeanor immediately changed. A lovesick puppy no longer was would-be bigamist Donald. Like that one? Eat your heart out, Time magazine. His face turned dark. His eyes bulged. He even bared his teeth and growled. He was a rabid pug dog, ridiculous but deadly. DM yelled, "Son of a bitch" and pointed the pistol at IK. Given that DM had threatened to shoot IK at the hotel earlier and that DM had thereafter proven his willingness and ability by re-enacting the OK Corral, I had no doubt of his intentions. IK was already strung out. One more hit would send him over the edge. In light of that, I considered the sleep dart a threat of deadly force and responded accordingly._

Illya shook his head. An enthralling story. Marsden was the villain; Faustina the hero; and he the one in distress, tied to the tracks awaiting death. He perceived their roles differently. After all, he had not been the one struck by a train.

"Miss Pemberley has the unfortunate tendency to do the first thing that pops into her head," Illya said, slapping the report onto the table. "Marsden was our key to capturing the Partridges."

"They've eluded us before," Waverly said. "As I recall, you and Mr. Solo thought it a good idea to leave Emory Partridge behind when up in the Yukon. That certainly blew up in your faces."

As he removed his glasses, Illya slanted his eyes to the empty chair beside him. He hoped a cold chill had just run down Napoleon's spine. Leaving Partridge to the mercies of Thrush had been his stroke of brilliance.

Waverly flipped a page in the file before him. "Beldon has impounded the Partridge's ship. Unfortunately there was no one aboard."

"Edith Partridge probably altered her plans when Marsden did not return. What about their island?"

"That has yet to be located. Morton, our top man in London, is attempting to retrace the ship's route to England, though there's precious little to go on."

Illya frowned. With Marsden dead, Beldon had declared Illya's mission officially over. Locating the Partridges was a matter for UNCLE Northeast and its agents. Had Faustina been sent on the hunt for the island, as well? If so, Illya hoped Morton had packed for sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll.

"In the meantime," Waverly said, "Barnes & Babcock is cooperating with us. The Partridge's accounts have been frozen, and anything else Marsden handled is being thoroughly reviewed."

Illya's lips twitched. "Then at least we know the Partridges are not out there somewhere sitting on their assets." A wide, disembodied smile, like Carroll's cat, appeared in his mind's eye, and a velvety chuckle echoed in his ear.

"Indeed," Waverly said dryly. "And Dr. Latner has finally agreed to accept our protection. A prudent choice, as he's of interest to both Thrush and the Partridges."

Illya thought of the oval-framed portrait, now likely in London HQ, being catalogued and examined with the rest of Marsden's belongings. "How is Miss Latner coping?"

"As well as you might imagine a young lady would upon learning of her fiancé's death. Miss Pemberley asked that she be the one to break the news."

Faustina was in Circleville, Ohio, peddling nonsense and wine and everything nice. He preferred her an ocean away. "I assume Marsden died a hero."

"Not at all. Miss Pemberley told her the truth," Waverly said, "or at least as much as could be told without compromising security."

"Would it not have been kinder the other way?"

Waverly's shaggy brows jumped. "The girl shouldn't go through life idolizing a blackguard," he said huffily, "possibly martyring herself to his memory. She needs to get out, see new things, meet new people. Miss Pemberley is taking her to Paris. A few days there, and she'll have forgotten all about this Marsden scoundrel."

"In a whirlwind of restaurants, discotheques, and theaters."

"Precisely."

"I shudder at the thought of such a harrowing mission."

"Cease the flummery, Mr. Kuryakin. By tonight, you and Mr. Solo will be starting your own mission in California."

"Undercover in the Hollywood Hills?" Illya asked hopefully.

Waverly shook his head. "Surveiling a Cult. I'll brief you both this afternoon."

"Yes, sir. If that is all for now…" Illya gripped the table edge and pushed his chair back.

"Not quite. The Medical section has completed its report on Capsule R." Waverly took another portfolio from a small stack and opened it. "In combination with the chemicals in Edith Partridge's gas, it produced—let me read it to you—'a heightened state of anxiety, especially regarding perceived threats, and an irrational mistrust of others, which could potentially include fellow agents.'"

"Paranoia."

"In a word, yes."

"So I am delusional." Illya could sit still no longer. He sprang to his feet and crossed to the narrow windows.

"Don't plan any restorative sabbaticals just yet, Mr. Kuryakin. Marsden most certainly went under that train. And I myself recall that private entrance from the Eastern Grande to the station, though it only went as far as the lobby in my youth. An unscrupulous manager must be utilizing it for personal profit or perhaps something more nefarious. We've notified Wynten, the owner of the hotel, and he assures us he'll take care of it."

"Is he a man of his word?"

Such a question was hardly disproving Medical's verdict. An ironical glint lit Waverly's eyes.

"If you'd met him, you wouldn't ask," his Chief responded. "Nevertheless the level of drugs in your system would have muddled your thinking. Your own actions upon awakening from the gas should convince you of that. Unless you think you were in your right mind when you attempted to strangle Miss Pemberley?"

"If you'd met her, you wouldn't ask."

He was risking Waverly's ire with such a rejoinder. He was surprised when, instead of rebuking him, Waverly laughed.

"Like that, was she? Well, you must remember that Miss Pemberley had received a similar combination of drugs, albeit in lesser quantities."

"Since birth?"

He had gone too far. Waverly's friendly bloodhound demeanor froze into a mask of granite. He tapped the report with his pipe, each contact reverberating like a gunshot in the silent room. "Medical has also determined that a dose of our paralytic toxin, on top of the other drugs in your system, would have resulted in a fatal heart attack."

Illya felt his face color. "Yes, sir." _Chyort_. She was the last person on earth he would be beholden to. "Am I dismissed?"

"Yes, until this afternoon."

Illya nodded and headed for the door.

"Oh, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly called as the doors whispered open. "There is one thing that needs to be changed in your report on the affair."

Illya turned back and said stiffly, "What is that?" Paranoid or not, he would stand by every letter of that report.

"You have misspelled Miss Pemberley's name. It has three Es."

There had been a degree of satisfaction in even that smallest act of retribution. Illya sighed. "Yes, sir."


	15. Epilogue

Late Summer 1966

"Bah," Illya pronounced in disgust. He ripped the page from the typewriter, then crushed it into a ball and hurled it into the waste bin.

Napoleon looked at the mound of discarded papers. "Get up on the wrong side of your bed this morning?" he asked. "Or maybe someone else's?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you and that typewriter have gone ten rounds, and so far the typewriter is winning."

Illya ran a hand through his blond hair. "I feel…off today."

"You aren't catching a summer cold, are you?" Napoleon said, backing away from him.

"My sinuses are fine, as is my respiration."

"Then it's probably jet-lag. I'd ask if you had indulged in too much local color, but that seems a foolish question."

"Very foolish." As he fed a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, his stomach growled loudly.

"Come on," Napoleon said. "I'll buy you lunch."

"Since when are you solvent?"

"Since last night. My coffers are not yet empty."

"So you are going to buy me lunch with the money I lent you?"

"You could say that, but it smacks a little of ingratitude. Are you coming or not?"

Illya was disinclined to button his shirt, which lay open at the throat, or don the tie dangling from the coat rack. "I would rather you brought me take-out."

"You've been cooped up in here all day."

"There is a stain on my collar." At Napoleon's knowing look, he clarified, "It is blood. I must have nicked myself shaving.

"Then we'll eat in the Commissary. If you've got a shirt and shoes, you get service." Napoleon bent to the side, as if trying to see around the desk. "You are wearing shoes, right?"

"Yes," Illya said, then sighed. "Very well. Let us eat." He stood up and followed Napoleon from the office.

When they reached the Commissary, he waited impatiently while Napoleon surveyed the room, looking for the table with the best view of the female personnel.

"Is it Wednesday already?" Napoleon asked.

"Yes. Tomato soup. Haddock sandwich." Or perhaps Fred had something new on the menu. There was an undercurrent in the room that usually meant a chef's special.

"Then that's her."

"Either you are making no sense, or I am having a worse day than I thought."

"Our new Section II." Napoleon snapped his fingers. "That's right. You haven't been here. Mr. Waverly had her transferred from London."

Illya's stomach flopped. "On second thought, I am not that hungry."

As Napoleon raised a hand to hail Mark Slate, Illya turned his eyes reluctantly to the table against the wall. The woman seated across from Mark had an agreeable face with no claims to great beauty.

"Of all the gin joints in all the world." He started to turn around.

Napoleon grabbed his arm. "Oh, no. You're coming just as you are, blood and all."

"Why?" Illya asked as Napoleon ushered him forward. "Afraid if I clean up you will be upstaged?"

Napoleon smoothed his lapel and said from the corner of his mouth, "That thought has never crossed my mind."

"Glad to see you, lads," Mark said with a look that indicated he felt nothing of the sort.

His companion was looking down, watching sugar cascade into her coffee. The hand grasping the shaker was well-shaped, the nails frosted in pink. The ash brown hair was drawn back into a pony tail with a modest bump at the crown. Her sleeveless, A-line dress was conservative yet _à la mode_. The cut indicated a designer label, not a bargain basement knock-off. A parting gift from Harry Beldon?

"Napoleon, Illya," Mark said, "may I present Miss Pemberley? Faustina, this is Napoleon Solo, our illustrious CEA and reigning playboy."

Napoleon grimaced at Mark, who grinned back like a cheeky elf. Faustina chuckled.

That laugh. Illya had not planned to hear it again. Considered objectively, it was a commonplace physiological response involving expiration and muscular contraction. That it transformed her ordinary, unremarkable face into something more captivating was a mere scientific curiosity.

She said, "I thought that would be your crown, Mark."

"I've only been in New York a few months. He can keep it a while longer."

"Thanks," Napoleon responded before turning a suave smile to Faustina. "How do you do?"

"Not as well as you, apparently."

Napoleon's mouth dropped, and his hand reached up to adjust the knot in his tie. On another day, Illya might laugh to see his partner nonplussed. But his physiological reactions were no longer hers to provoke.

Gesturing to Illya, Mark said, "And this dour fellow glowering at us so decidedly is—"

Illya's stomach rumbled loudly.

"Illya Kuryakin, his dyspeptic partner," Mark finished.

Faustina's large grey eyes met his. They glinted with mocking amusement, as expected, and echoed the sparkle of the rhinestone buttons adorning her grey woolen bodice. "I know a cure for that," she said.

The fluorescent lights and chatter of the Commissary receded. He was in the Jacobite Club once again. He could hear the pounding music and smell violets and bergamot. He frowned, steeling himself against any corresponding somatic responses. "Hair of the dog?" he asked.

"Antacid tablets."

His lips tried to curve upwards. Pressing them together, he shifted his eyes to the hand resting on the Formica tabletop. Its knuckles were healed and unscarred. That hand had struck down Marsden, not in his defense, but in a fit of pique. He would not be beholden to it.

"May we join you?" Napoleon asked her, his easy charm restored.

"Of course."

Napoleon looked at him expectantly. Illya rolled his eyes and fetched two chairs from the next table. He straddled his, leaning crossed arms along its back, a bulwark against the unwanted encounter.

"Faustina and I flew a few missions together back in England," the former RAF pilot said, grinning insufferably.

Napoleon gazed at Faustina, his chin resting in his hand. "You worked the Latner Affair with Illya, didn't you?"

"Yes. We spent a lot of time in bed together."

Napoleon's brows lifted. Mark choked on his mouthful of tea. Illya could feel the blood pulsing in the hollow of his throat.

"Tied up, of course," she added.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow at his partner. "Yes, I, ah, read the report."

"Well, I haven't," Mark croaked, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I'll take you out for lunch, and you can tell me all about it."

Napoleon held up a finger. "Actually, as her CEA, I should have that honor."

Faustina's smile encompassed Mark and Napoleon, then settled on Illya. If she expected him to make it a trifecta, she was sorely mistaken. He intended to see her as little as possible.

"Thank you," she said, "but the honor already belongs to Mr. Waverly." As Mark started to speak, she continued, "After that I'm scheduled for orientation sessions all afternoon. Including one with Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya straightened. "I was not told about that."

"You will be."

"Mark, darling, there you are," April Dancer called. The slim brunette navigated around several tables to reach them. "Mr. Waverly is waiting to meet with us."

"Sorry, luv, I forgot." He stood up. "Oh, April, have you—"

"Yes, I have," April interrupted. "Miss Pemberley."

"Miss Dancer."

Napoleon leaned back in his chair. "Our two intrepid trailblazers. You ladies must be looking forward to working together."

"Of course," April said between clenched teeth.

"Not at all," Faustina said simultaneously.

April narrowed her eyes and smiled menacingly. "Nice dress."

"Thank you."

"I can't wear grey. It makes me look insipid. But it's perfect on you."

Illya saw the familiar light of battle in Faustina's eyes. "Yes, it's a color best worn by personalities that don't require augmentation."

Mark's snicker quickly changed to a cough at April's scowl.

"How long have you been in uniform?" Faustina asked.

April looked down in confusion at her bright yellow dress and flowered purple tie. "What uniform?"

Faustina smiled widely. "The Carnabetian Army."

Mark quickly took his fuming partner's elbow. "We're late, must dash. Bye for now, everyone."

As he steered April away, he looked at Faustina over his shoulder and mouthed, "Behave." She assumed her mask of wide-eyed innocence in response.

"You two ladies aren't going to give me any trouble, are you?" Napoleon asked when the agents were out of earshot.

"Probably. Academy grads have no respect for a ranker."

"Or maybe they have good instincts," Illya said.

A crease appeared at the top of her nose, and her eyes looked upward as if in thought. "No, I don't think that's it."

Napoleon frowned at his partner before turning a conciliatory smile on Faustina. "I apologize for my friend here," he said. "I'd like to say he's not normally this rude, but my grandmother taught me never to tell a lie."

Faustina laughed. "Then you must be a terrible spy."

Napoleon leaned closer to her and said in a low voice, "Confidentially, I don't always do what my grandmother told me."

Faustina leaned in as well. Her gaze slanted to Illya. "Confidentially, neither do I."

"I thought we came here to eat," Illya growled.

"So we did." Napoleon said. "I'll start with coffee. And you can get Miss Pemberley a refill while you're up."

Illya pushed himself off the chair. "Would you rather see the wine list?" he asked her.

"Well, I am still operating on London time," she said, glancing at her watch, "but I should probably hold off until my luncheon."

He nodded curtly and walked to the counter.

"What can I get you?" Fred asked.

"Two coffees for Mr. Solo's table."

"Sure thing. And what about you?"

"Vodka."

"One Executive Special." Fred looked up from his pad, and his laughter faltered. "You know I don't serve alcohol here, Mr. Kuryakin. We're not licensed for it."

"One would think an international organization would not be subject to the petty tyrannies of local bureaucracy."

Fred scratched his head, knocking his white paper hat askew. "There's a full bar over in the Mask Club."

"Indeed, there is." Illya turned and strode for the doors.

"But they're not open yet," Fred called after him.

Illya ignored him. Bureaucratic regulations be damned. If he was not lunching on a double vodka and a bowl of peanuts within five minutes, he was the terrible spy.

~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~ o ~~

"Those are our latest innovations in micro-explosives and radio detonators. Are there any questions?" Illya asked.

Faustina looked to her left and right. As Mr. Waverly's directive had been to give her a personal tutorial, there was no one else present in the small, sub-basement laboratory. He waited for one of her many smiles. Her lips remained in a subdued line, and only the barest glimmer lit her eyes as she shook her head.

"Then that concludes my demonstration."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Good day."

As she headed for the door, he turned around and began to straighten up the workbench. His air of professional formality had held throughout the presentation. Faustina's had as well. Heeding Mark's parting admonition, she had been a model pupil without a hint of drollery or innuendo to interrupt his lesson. He should have been relieved. He was not.

Illya felt a burning near his heart. He leaned heavily on the workbench. Halfway between the Commissary and the Mask Club, he had realized what he really wanted was a huge sandwich and a colossal beer. He had gone out and consumed both with gusto, disregarding the indigestion that would inevitably follow such a gastronomic orgy. He groaned and pressed his fist to his sternum.

"Here."

He turned his head and saw a roll of cherry-flavored antacid tablets.

"It's not an apple for the teacher," she said, "but you look like another bite would finish you off."

She was more concerned about preventing his demise than his insurance carrier. He was about to refuse her offer when a fresh spurt of pain traveled up his esophagus. "Thank you," he said, plucking a tablet from the roll.

She took the next one and popped it in her mouth, then put the roll in her pocket. "Chicken Cacciatore hates me. I wish I could hate it back."

She looked at him in polite expectancy. It seemed unnecessarily churlish to rebuff her. "I ate too fast," he admitted.

Several racy comebacks occurred to him, and he waited to see which she would choose. But she simply gave her doctorly nod, then looked down at her black patent mini-pumps. The rhinestone buckles winked up at them.

"Do you want help cleaning up?" she asked.

"No, thank you."

"OK, then. Well, I have another training to get to. Mark this time. He's probably wondering where I am." She spun around on the ball of her foot and walked to the door. As it whispered open, she said, "Though an hour's orientation on the Map Room seems unnecessary."

The door closed, and Illya resumed his straightening of the workbench. It was a soothing exercise to return each item to its proper place. An ordered lab would order the mind.

As he worked, he shook his head. Poor Mark. April would not be happy about his training her adversary on the—

"Map Room?" he barked and rushed from the lab.


End file.
